


This Side of Me

by pissedoffpineapples



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedoffpineapples/pseuds/pissedoffpineapples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling it necessary to "make friends and influence people" while at Hydra, Jemma Simmons finds herself turning to an unconventional - and somewhat uncomfortable - method of getting Hydra Chief of Security Bobbi Morse to like her, unaware all the while of the high level Hydra agent's true identity and affiliation. </p><p>[Written with the presumption that Bobbi and Jemma did not defect from Hydra when they did canonically, but that the mission lasted a little longer.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Simmons knew it sounded absolutely ridiculous. But it was something she couldn't keep from her mind as Coulson had suggested it – you have to make friends, he had said. That's the only way to move up in Hydra, to make connections, to get intel – friends. 

It had come to her mind immediately following the suggestion parting from his lips – how exactly does one make friends? To ask such a question sounded absurd, as she had plenty to speak of. But they were friends that began with work connections, except for Fitz – and that was a complicated matter. At least as things stood now.

No, how does one make friends? She fretted about it as Coulson had prattled on the background. It was never something someone had instructed her to do. It had never been an order, but rather, always a choice. She had made friends throughout her life because of personal connections, interests, because she had a class with them or worked with them. But she certainly didn't know how to go out of her way to purposely acquire a friendship with anyone – especially the people working at Hydra who were all frightening all the time. 

But she was on assignment for Coulson, and if he told her making friends was the way, she was going to have to trust his judgment. After all, he was a veteran of the field and had probably done exactly what she was stuck doing on multiple occasions. She knew he knew what he was talking about, but it didn't seem to reduce the stress. 

Things had seemed so simple then, even though she sat down with him to eat dinner not even a week ago. And here it was she found herself, seated at a bar, drinking a Gin Rickey and dressed up in some gaudy outfit, eyeing the woman across the room from her. What was she doing? 

Simmons buried her consciousness in her drink, staring into the half full glass, wondering how or if she was going to even pull this off. She had built herself up into this plan in the ensuing days before, convincing herself that it was her best bet. 

The woman across the bar was Hydra agent Barbara Morse. She was Hydra's security chief – a position with a cascade of power and influence dripping from it. She would be the first to admit that the woman had an almost astoundingly intimidating presence in whatever room she entered. Even tonight, at the bar, something about her was almost magnetic. She comprised the very center, the core, of the room. 

Simmons remembered with some chagrin and anxiety her first meeting with Morse. She was working in her Hydra lab job, the one she had acquired and taken up on Coulson's orders, and the one she arrived to each day with a fake smile plastered on her lips and heavy fear sewn into her chest, like a corset stuffed with rocks. Everything had been fine – muddling around with the typical menial samples that the Hydra bosses allowed low level lab workers – when in she had strutted, owning the entire room and everyone in it with one simple sentence: 

“We have a mole, ladies and gentlemen..” 

Jemma still shuddered a little to think of the way the room had seized up. And in her own, hidden knowledge of her guilt, she had felt like everyone in the room was suddenly staring at her and aware of all her hidden objectives. And of the SHIELD contraband she knew was in her desk. 

Everything had come rushing up and she was painfully aware of what could go on. The Hydra officers in their black combat attire, faces hidden as if with masks, they looked to Jemma in that moment the sort of monsters that children would fear were hiding in their closet. They railed various workers with questions, pointing fingers in faces, filing through desk drawers and computer hard drives at rapid pace. Things were so much different than SHIELD, Jemma remembered thinking, as she watched the scene unfold around her and attempted to sink into her mind that her short lived spy life could quite possibly end then and there. 

It was a hard thing to absorb. The last thing she wanted to have to do was swallow down the possibility of her own death – or worse, Hydra enslavement – so all she could do to attempt to settle her jittery nerves was to repeat over and over in her mind, everything is going to be alright, a hopeful, distant sounding mantra.

Jemma had been lost in her thoughts and stress as the situation whipped around her incomprehensibly, like a blender, and then suddenly Morse was walking over to her with a cold, strikingly sinister look in her hard eyes and a clipboard under her arm. “Dr. Jemma Simmons...” She had begun, almost mockingly, and Jemma remembered being both terrified and in awe that she was being singled out by this woman of power, high among the ranks of this terrorist organization. 

As the confident Hydra chief began to derail her with questions and accusations, Simmons didn't even know what to say or how to react – she had never been much of a liar, but she knew that she had gone into an operation such as this one with eyes wide open. Coulson had given it to her straight: it was a dangerous op, a risky one, and it would likely require her to lie through her teeth on several occasions to avoid detection and to get the in-depth information SHIELD was looking for. 

Every loop hole she had attempted to find, Morse sealed shut with utter clarity of the entire situation. It was as if she already knew, but simply needed the proof to remove her. Like an unwanted rodent who wouldn't quite progress into the set trap. Simmons had tried to avert her accusations by claiming many current Hydra agents were formerly SHIELD, but of course Morse had an answer for everything. 

Simmons watched her speak, barely registering the words. Her smooth mouth poured out sentence after sentence. It looked to Simmons like it was a mouth that would display a beautiful smile – but she had long since learned, even in her short time at Hydra, that smiles were scarce around there. All Jemma could think to say in the end, to defend herself against the harrowing gaze that showered judgment and hatred down upon her, was to state plainly, clear as day, where her loyalties lay – without confirming or denying anything else. 

The look in her eyes that had only grown colder and her words more deeply slicing, as she leaned over and started to rummage through the desk drawer beside Simmons. She had already made the necessary – and incredibly risky – precautions of moving the incriminating evidence away from herself so as to secure her position. 

Not that she didn't feel the stinging, prolonged echo of guilt raining through her system as they hauled away her lab partner who, besides being in Hydra in the first place, had done nothing wrong in Jemma's books. And here she was, framing him to get hauled off to be imprisoned. And imprisonment was the best case scenario. She felt the guilt tear at her innards, and the stab of Morse's backwards, unforgiving and most of all unconvinced glance sent a cold shot of fear to her core.

As soon as they were allowed to resume working, Simmons excused herself to the facility's public washroom and entered a stall hastily. She needed a moment to collect herself, her thoughts, and her breath – especially if she intended on making it through the day. 

She closed the lid of the toilet and promptly sat on it, placing her head in her heads now that she finally had the pleasure of being alone. A moment to rest. What was she doing? She was a scientist, not a spy. And while working in a lab was always comfortable, she was learning quickly that among this the Hydra lab did not belong with its constant threat of danger and discovery. Science and spying were not something easily mixed, she was realizing. The whole situation was like being in a speeding vehicle. She was uncertain of when or where it would stop, or if she would still be alive and functional when she was pulled from the wreckage. 

Knowing she couldn't stay cowered in a bathroom stall forever for fear of arousing suspicion, Simmons stood promptly, and wiped the sudden cold sweat that had accumulated on her brow with the back of her hand. Cool. Calm. Control. Just like May had taught her before she defected from SHIELD. “Everything will be just fine,” She murmured to herself, her voice more collected than she'd imagined it would be, though the words were taught and strained. Hearing the words out loud brought a comfort she couldn't explain. 

Exiting the stall, as it was definitely more than time to head back, Simmons nearly walked into the last person she wanted to come face to face with for the second time that day – agent Morse. Feeling her heart leap from her chest and flop around at the base of her throat like a fish out of water, she struggled to react to Morse's aggressive approach and further interrogation that came without any pause or reservation.

In fact, the stone faced brunette delved right into the conversation as if it had never ended, and it was clear she didn't believe Simmons was Hydra. That in itself was a dangerous enough feat to face. Was she being followed?

Somehow, Jemma wasn't surprised that Morse seemed to read her nervousness like a clear, articulate vibration in the air. A wave length that she zoned in on like the open pages of a book, splayed and displayed before the woman's icy blue, prying eyes. 

Managing to weasel her way out of the tight situation yet again, Jemma found she was unable to find a calm, safe space in the blur of her mind for the rest of the day. Morse rode her thoughts all day, raging, mechanical bulls that they were. She couldn't escape the frightful prowess of that woman even in her own skull. Jemma wondered what sort of action she would take in investigating her further – but even more pressing was, how she seemed to be so convinced based on almost nothing. Was it that obvious? 

Just a glance from Morse had ripped Simmons to shreds on two separate occasions on the same day, and she still felt her drilling eyes hours after Morse had went on her way, leaving Jemma trembling in the Hydra bathroom. Even by the time the day had progressed into evening, her Hydra troubles over, Simmons still found the memories were sitting heavy on her every thought. To the point where she felt unsafe even in her own bed, fearing every noise would be Hydra, coming to pick her up and take her away quietly on the recommendation of that sinister woman in red. 

Sitting now at the bar, just meters away from the same woman who had very recently put her mind under incredible strain and impossible weight, Simmons stirred her drink tentatively. It felt a little strange to be here. Simmons wanted to be noticed by Morse – for that was her entire objective – but at the same time, she feared deeply any inkling of attention for that meant there was no chance of going back. 

The idea had first planted itself not long after that fateful day. She remembered her conversation with Coulson from days previous – and the gears in her incredibly agile mind started to turn. He wanted her to make friends. Making friends would guarantee her at least a little security, someone on her side, a more convincing display. First her mind had gone to her lab partner – but lying in bed one night, it had clicked in like the last satisfying piece of a puzzle. 

Making friends with another menial lab worker stuck in the same dreary position as herself would not earn her any of the perks Coulson said making influential friends would. Influence was key – she needed to befriend someone who demanded attention with their every move. Prowess, domination and control. Agent Barbara Morse. This friendship, above any other, would provide Simmons with the proper angle – and maybe even soften the discomfort she felt towards the other woman and help her sleep a little easier at night.


	2. Chapter 2

And so her plan had been born. She asked around the lab when times were appropriate, and gathered tidbits of information about her target, which included her name, something she had been oblivious to until that point. Simmons also used any proper time she could find – such as when all the lab workers were gone for lunch and very few people were around – to hack her way into Morse's file. This, of course, listed her address and other personal information that she scribbled in a notepad. 

This felt like true spy work – sneaky, cold and bitterly terrifying. But having no idea how long her stay in Hydra would be, a friend, however fake, would be more than welcome – more than welcome, but also more than difficult to obtain. Difficult to obtain, but an absolute asset to get all the intel for SHIELD she could muster. This brought her next period of stalemate, and the hatching of the next segment of her very unconventional plan. 

So, she knew things about Morse. So what? Simmons grappled for a couple of days of what she could do with this information that would lead to the alliance she was striving for. The thought had at first grazed her mind on a whim – and it was something she had dismissed quickly, awkwardly, feeling the heat rising to her face that followed the absurd idea. 

But the more the thought returned to her, coming back periodically like the faithful boomerang she just wanted to be rid of, the absurdity began to melt from it. While it still seemed ludicrous – at least for her, Jemma Simmons, who had never attempted anything even remotely similar in her short life thus far – it also began to open itself up as her best vantage point. 

There weren't many options for making friends with someone who she rarely saw. Not many options, and the more she waded through them, feeling neck deep in endless impossibilities, the more this particular idea seemed to sparkle and shine with an air of “pick me!”

After a time, Simmons noticed that thinking of it no longer made her blush like some kind of ridiculous school girl. Her confidence was not on the rise, but her back against the wall was prompting her in a similar fashion. She knew the world had changed, and that her team was depending on her for this. Vital information as an insider was at risk. She knew she would have to take her shyness, tie it up, and lock it in the figurative storage closet in the back of her mind if this was going to be pulled off properly. 

This was just what she did. And so, Simmons took to the mirror, applying her red lipstick and light layer of make up with an attentive, but nervous, hand. She dressed herself in the best way possible, starting with her nicest undergarments and covering those with a light blouse and darker, short pencil skirt. Jemma tentatively styled her newly chopped hair into shapely curls, and examined herself in the mirror, a little flutter in her chest. 

This was not the kind of op she was used to, and while she was not entirely against getting pretty and dressing in nice clothes, she would have much preferred a lab smock, safety glasses and rubber gloves at that point perhaps more than any other time in her life. 

Giving herself one last, long look over, Jemma remembered saying “well, this is it,” out loud to herself before grabbing her purse and heading to the sidewalk where she would hail a taxi and begin her secret operation. She would take a cab to nearby the vicinity to Morse's apartment. It wasn't far from Simmons' own – and the thought made her both nervous and inexplicably intrigued. 

When she climbed into the taxi that smelled old and faintly like cigarette smoke, Simmons still hadn't quite worked out what she was going to say when she showed up at Morse's front door. She knew she was disguising it as a work related emergency. A scientific breakthrough on the sample she had been working on. She could only hope that Morse would be intrigued by her supposed discovery, and not have to wonder how she had figured out her address. If she did, well...there really wasn't much she could even imagine saying – what would one say in that sort of situation, exactly? 

_Hi, I know you hate me, but...  
I found your address by hacking the computers at work. Can I come in?  
How did I get your address? That's a long story, because you see..._

Each possibility reeked of train wreck more than the last, and Jemma tried to keep her head cool as they got close to the apartment complex. She would figure out what to say on the spot. After all, her lying skill was blooming and thriving in every aspect of this op – she would think of something, and fast. Morse wouldn't find her overly suspicious. Hopefully.

As the cab driver hauled into the parking lot, and Jemma was taking one last shaky inhalation to prepare herself of what was to come – for better or for worse – the brunette's brown eyes snagged onto the slender silhouette of a familiar figure hoofing across the parking lot. Just crossing through the beams of the headlights. A flash of brown hair. The towering height, strong legs, stern look. Was that...?

Jemma remained in the backseat, suffering no objection as yet from the driver, watching the alluring shadow of a woman move towards a car in the line of many that laced the parking lot in dark straits. The young biochemist could feel her heart racing, as she watched the figure etching her way across the pavement – but just what was she doing? 

Morse took a long, digging glance at the taxi – and Jemma slowly ducked her head behind the passenger's seat in the hopes she wouldn't be noticed – and then the chief of security took a brief side swiping look from left to right, before prying open the driver's seat door and nestling inside. Always suspicious or suspecting.

Jemma remained inside the taxi as Morse's car rumbled into life, the bright yellow headlights awakening like the opening of a monster's eyes at the back of a dark tunnel. The car began to move, just as the taxi driver was saying “is this your stop or ain't it, ma'am?”, and Jemma sprung into life once again. 

Not thinking she would ever get the opportunity to say such a cheesy line – because it seemed only to be present in the movies – Jemma felt sincerely like the most ridiculous spy in the world was she let the sentence trail from her mouth, just as Morse and her vehicle were getting to the mouth of the parking lot and flipping on the right turn signal. 

“Follow that car!...please.”


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi driver didn't ask questions, though he seemed to pull the vehicle into drive somewhat bitterly as he changed directions to go after Morse. Another car had gotten between the taxi and the target, Jemma noted when they had begun the drive to wherever it was the Hydra executive was going. This seemed to work to her advantage, at least – it would be less likely that she would be detected now.

Simmons rode in the back of the taxi, impatient, wondering how long the drive would be, mulling over how her plans would have to flex and bend to meet the new circumstances. Was Morse even going somewhere that Simmons could conceivably follow? The way the woman had been shooting her eyes about conspicuously had Jemma thinking maybe she was nervous about being followed. It could be Hydra business – private Hydra business – and Jemma could be in serious trouble. 

Nervousness seemed to clog her every pore and airway yet again, as the car that had been sandwiched between the taxi and Morse changed lanes and turned off into a different direction. Simmons kept her head down, peeking up to look at the car ahead of them cautiously and sporadically, still afraid of being noticed and pegged as some kind of crazy stalker. 

They continued to drive like this for a time, and Jemma kept her eyes consistently focused on her shoes, or the blurring street out the window to her right, at least when she wasn't creeping a look at the car she was following. How long would she be stuck in limbo like this? Wondering when and where she would end up and what that would mean for her ability to adjust? 

When suddenly, she hadn't the time to worry anymore – the taxi turned right sharply, onto a side street, following Morse seamlessly. Jemma had a funny, almost sickly feeling deep in her gut, that she would know exactly where they would be going in a matter of minutes, and would not have to wonder anymore.

And she was correct – soon they pulled into the parking lot of a bar. A bar, of all places – Simmons couldn't help but be astounded. While it obviously couldn't be denied that Hydra agents, too, like SHIELD agents, had lives outside their jobs...a bar? Somehow she had been expecting a far more harrowing and sinister location.

That was, of course, how she ended up where she was at present – cautiously sipping a drink across the room from agent Morse and contemplating what exactly she could even do. The other woman, at least as of that moment, hadn't seemed to notice her, and didn't when she had entered. Perhaps Jemma had been somehow more stealthy than she had imagined. Which didn't seem possible when it was herself she was thinking about, especially if two left feet were a factor to consider. 

The place was a tornado of noise, whipping around her. It didn't allow her mind to settle any. Loud talking voices, the delicate clinking of glass bottles, laughing, the distant clack of pool cues on hard colored balls...the scene was not unfamiliar, but it was definitely bordering on impossible to absorb the let loose and relax atmosphere of the place despite how it tried. 

This was not something she had ever attempted before. Not even something she had imagined attempting – this was way too Black Widow for her. But yet here she was. Here she was, dressed up, sipping on alcohol – not an abnormal sight, certainly, but definitely strange to be doing for work. She wondered what exactly her team would be thinking of her now if they were aware of what exactly her Hydra double life had dragged her into. If they were even aware at all of her double life.

Jemma felt the need arising in her. She took another sip of her drink, and then boldly turned her head to arch over her shoulder in an attempt to get another look at Morse. The woman was seated at a round table, that much she could see – there was an intensely muscular, dark skinned man across the way from her and and two beers set on the table in front of them. 

The man said something to Morse that Simmons could neither hear nor lip read, and the brunette's face contorted into one of almost grievous humor as a hearty laugh erupted her system. Simmons had been right about the pearly white, enrapturing smile that was painted on her face now, though it was something so bizarre to the Hydra mole that she found she couldn't look away. 

She really is quite beautiful, Jemma found herself thinking as she watched the animated conversation between Morse and the dark stranger across the room. Then, as if prompted by electrical shock, she whipped her head back around, banishing the thought, nursing her drink (and silently, the knee she had banged under the counter in her quick effort to stop staring). She had just consciously nearly blown her own cover, and for what? 

Heart hammering in her chest, Jemma wiped a little condensation from her glass with her fingertips. She supposed it wasn't technically blowing her cover if the whole point of coming here was to get the other woman's attention. But still. The last thing she would want would be for the intense brunette across the room to catch her staring.

Jemma wasn't sure why exactly she detested such a thought – but she chose not to harp on it, simply writing it down to the fact that it would all in all only make her seem more suspicious. She needed to focus on the plan. 

But the plan was all out of sorts – wasn't it? She had been counting on getting Morse alone, and at home. But now they were stuck in a loud bar, a public place – and just who was that man she was with? Was he Hydra? A friend unrelated to Hydra? Her boyfriend? Husband? Brother? There were endless possibilities, she was sure, but none of them made her feel comfortable about just strutting over there and sitting down. Jemma Simmons had never been the kind of girl who handled attention well, be it good or bad, and so bringing it to herself seemed only a distant second to hell on earth. 

There didn't seem to be many other options. She had told her taxi to leave her, for she had full intentions of going home with Morse – and there was no going back now. They were in the middle of god knows where, and she had come this far – if she were to turn around and leave and get back to the security of her apartment, she would be back to square one. No friends, no advantages that would surely come with it. No backbone. 

Something about that last thought made her squirm with self loathing. Surely, she thought, beginning the pep talk, she could handle this. She could prove herself to be a exemplary field agent, even without a team for support. Simmons had always counted on herself, on science and on her friends – but she knew her true ones were far away from here, living their lives as best as they could under the newly established SHIELD, painfully unaware of her whereabouts. 

Science would be her excuse in this plan – or at least that had been it initially. But would it make more sense to have a “chance encounter” completely unrelated to work, now that she found herself in a dim pub? 

Fussing and mulling over the particulars, Simmons couldn't get her head straight. It was all on her, now, she eventually deemed – no friends in sight and no place for science. It would be entirely on her shoulders and her brain to act quickly, and perhaps some unused female intuition deep inside her that had never been touched or moved in such an intense manner.

Her drink disappeared more and more as the minutes ticked away. She lost a sense of time – scolding herself for not wearing a watch of some kind – and finally she decided that it was time to chance another glance in the direction of her target. Simmons turned her head, steady and tentative, and found that Morse was in the same spot as before. Same table. Same guest. Same beer – maybe it hadn't been quite as long as she had been thinking. 

The conversation had seemingly hardened to rock. That face turning smile no longer danced on Morse's lips, and her company was equally as stony in expression. Their voices were lower now – or so it seemed by their slower, smaller mouth movements. What exactly was transpiring here? 

Simmons watched them a little longer, until exactly what she had feared began to unfold just before her eyes. The head that had at once been heavily focused on the person across from her, the blue eyes that had before been so exquisitely dancing with laughter firmly serious and focused, began to turn undoubtedly towards the inexperienced spy.


	4. Chapter 4

It happened with such a slowness that it was almost dramatic. Not realizing what was about to happen until it was already too late, Jemma felt the familiar gag of her heart bouncing up from her chest to block her airway. Morse's eyes were right on her – and not just in her general direction. Jemma could see the tiny spark of recognition light indefinitely in each pool of gray blue. 

Jemma whirled her head around quickly, unsure of what else to do – she played absent-mindedly with what ice remained at the bottom of her empty glass, looking outwardly calm. Her thoughts, however, raced like a highway – did Morse really see her? 

Perhaps she was imagining things, though she didn't dare risk another glance back just to check. Jemma was painfully sure – despite how her mind desperately attempted to comfort her – that Morse had seen her and knew exactly who she was. Their eyes had clicked, something had crossed her face, some undefinable expression, and suddenly Jemma knew that she was dangerously in the open. 

Naked and undefended, she felt somewhat like a gazelle who had just spotted the lioness in the bushes. And then, like the embodiment of said beautiful predator, Simmons could swear she heard footsteps coming her way, even among the blur of sound that was the bar. 

Sitting in silence, playing with the ice in a way that now seemed far more nervous than casual, Jemma waited in solid, horrid anticipation for a hard voice, a graceful movement, or a flash of gorgeous brown curls. 

When it finally did happen, Simmons practically flinched at the one sentence thrown at her, resounding just behind her right ear. 

“Funny seeing you here, Miss Simmons.” Confidence. Cold fierceness. Undoubtedly Hydra Chief of Security Barbara Morse. 

Unable to fight it any longer, at the end of her rope, Simmons turned around on her bar stool to face the woman who was calling her out. The woman she had come there in specific pursuit of. “Why yes,” She began, her voice a little too quiet and so she cleared her throat and continued, “Imagine that.” 

The woman's stare was naturally judgmental, it seemed, as she stood there eyeing Simmons up and down as if it was nobody's business. Simmons swallowed and it felt like a rock descending into her system. Now would be a good time, brain, she thought, trying to work her thoughts into fast motion. 

Just as she was about to open her red painted lips to utter another sentence, Morse continued, “I didn't really peg you as the bar type.”

What exactly was a “bar type”, Jemma mused. The younger girl also sheepishly found herself wondering what exactly Morse had pegged her as. She wanted to respond with “you have no idea”, but instead, she stuck with: “I don't often.” This wasn't entirely untrue, she discerned. The small bar on the Bus could hardly be considered a real bar. Somehow she felt more confident when she was telling only half a lie. 

“You're just the last person I'd expect to bump into.” The woman's eyes were cold again, none of the former smile or gut busting laughter remained on her form now, shed from her like a whole other skin altogether.

Simmons thought she would perish under the stare, the one she couldn't help feel betrayed her. She knows, she suddenly found herself thinking. She knows I followed her. “Oh, well, you know.” Simmons began, laughing sheepishly. “Sometimes it's nice to unwind. What about you, agent Morse?” 

Something in her expression, that Jemma was perhaps reading a little too closely for the slightest inkling of disturbance, displayed that she seemed to be a little surprised that Jemma even knew her name. “Oh, you know.” The chief said, her smile returning in the slightest, though something mischievous in her eyes reflected upon it, like a mirror. “Unwinding. This definitely isn't work related. If that's what you're wondering.” 

Jemma smiled, and while she knew she was forcing it, the entire situation was growing expansively awkward too quickly for her to keep up. What to say next? 

“You seem nervous.” 

The conjecture of course was not an incredulous one, because Simmons knew that she was incredibly – almost painfully – nervous. But she had heard that before. How is that Morse always seemed to be able to read her when she had said barely anything at all? “Oh, no, I'm not – ”

Morse turned around. She nodded her head at her friend who waited at the table, and he got up and proceeded to walk out of the bar. Then she turned back to Simmons, her true motives unreadable, just as her serious expression. 

Simmons swallowed again, but it felt like taking a sip of dry sand. Her saliva had even abandoned her. Morse leaned over the counter and ordered two martinis with the same kind of all controlling command in her voice that she used when they were at the Hydra base. Some things, Jemma thought, really do permeate from work to home. 

Morse set one of the martinis down in front of the scientist, taking a seat at the stool to her right. Looking down at her drink in some state of awe that made her heart race a little, Jemma took in that she must have done something right – or else this was part of Morse's scheme. Whatever that was. Where exactly had her table-mate gone? Something about it was more than suspicious. Was she in danger? 

“For someone who came to unwind,” Morse began, picking the olives from the toothpick in her martini one by one and dropping them on the counter, “You're still pretty uptight. Have a drink, Dr. Simmons. Unwind.” It was like some sort of strange taunt.

The way she said her name struck Jemma as intensely mocking, every time it was said it seemed to be voiced with more and more contempt. She wondered absently what she had ever done to be so strongly disliked and suspected on the basis of almost nothing. Jemma looked at the drink tentatively, and then glanced back to Morse, who observed her with the watchful gaze of a true huntress minding her prey.

Following orders with precision as she was wont to do, Simmons sipped the drink and it was every inch the perfect dry martini. Simmons supposed she came here often, as it seems she knew just what to order and how she wanted it. “Now that's a good martini.” She commented, setting it down in front of her again. 

“The best.” Morse corrected simply, a small smirk crossing her features and breaking up some of the ice in her expression momentarily. But something in her eyes was still purely accusatory. The intimidating brunette took a gulp of the gin before her, the momentary lapse of her gaze loosening up some of the tension in Simmons. Or maybe it was the alcohol. 

“About the other day,” Morse was saying now, and Simmons knew immediately what particular incident she was talking about. Just remembering it made her chest feel tight. “I had to address a few security issues. I know I railed you pretty hard, but that's just how it goes. I don't expect you to know much about it being a new worker and all. Everyone is a suspect.” 

Her ramble was certainly not the apology Simmons somehow expected when she heard “about the other day”. But then again, she was fooling herself – what Hydra agent even had sorry in their vocabulary? Because Ward certainly didn't. Not that its presence with him would have made the situation any more favorable than it already was, or that it would have lessened her pain and hatred. Timidly taking a another drink from the martini, Jemma felt the hard, probing eyes on her again. 

“But you know. Despite all that. You don't have any reason to be so uncomfortable around me.” Morse paused to drink from her glass. And then, almost scathing, “unless you have something to hide, of course.” 

Simmons smiled her taught, forced little smile again as Morse drank from her glass without taking her eyes off the biochemist. “No, no, of course not.” She waved her hand a little as if to casually dismiss Morse's claims as absurd. Letting her expression harden from one of sheepish humor to seriousness, Jemma allowed herself to meet Morse's steady gaze. “I already told you. Despite my past, I am a Hydra agent now.” 

Letting her eyes fall, Simmons took a hasty sip of her drink and then added, “as you said yourself, I was just a little nervous because nothing like that had happened since I joined Hydra. You were all rather strict and I, well. I just wasn't certain of the proper way to proceed.” 

That, she thought, waiting for a response, was a mouthful. But hopefully a convincing mouthful. 

“Strict as opposed to what?” Morse asked, and Jemma knew exactly where she was digging with a little jump of her heart. 

The room wavered around her a little. She was drinking too fast. She had to slow down or else she would end up drunk or sick before she even made it to Morse's apartment. That, she knew, would be a deal breaker for this op – and so she slowed down, setting the drink on the bar and running a hand nervously through her bob of brown hair. “Well – ”

“As opposed to SHIELD?” Morse still gazed at her expectantly, already nearly reaching the bottom of her martini but seeming all the more composed despite it. With one hand she reached up and handled one of her voluptuous curls with slender fingers, and then returned it to her lap. All the while she waited for a response, or a confession – something Jemma wasn't going to give. 

Simmons could feel a film of sweat grazing the nape of her neck and she couldn't decide if it was the drink, extremely potent as it was, she was realizing, or if it was that stare. Morse's eyes, like chisels, attempted to hit and flake away her composure until only what was inside remained. 

“Well, I know, and I'm quite certain you do as well, that SHIELD was not nearly as succinct in their threat analysis as it seems we are.” Simmons stated plainly, ambiguously, reaching again for her drink as if with nervous reflex and then stopping herself. “After all, Hydra was able to exist inside SHIELD for quite some time before anyone even batted an eyelash.” At this she appeared to seem good humored, and she was happy to note that Morse mirrored the sentiment. 

“You're right about that.” Morse said, and Jemma felt a little tension drain out of her. Finally, she had seemed to say something right that didn't arise suspicion – but she reminded herself that being overly Hydra-patriotic would also clip her as a target. “They don't do things like us. That's why they're no more, and we're still standing strong, right?” 

Jemma reveled in knowing that SHIELD was still very much alive, very much strong and very much ready to sink Hydra. She didn't let this show on her face, and instead recruited once again the tight smile and nodded at her superior, this time allowing herself to clasp her drink and take a minute sip from it. 

Morse ordered another martini, this time requesting that they hold the olives. Even if it seemed more of a demand than a request. Simmons could see the old ones, like three uneasy green eyeballs, sitting in a beady lump together on the bar beside the empty glass. Sitting, waiting in anticipation of what would come next, Jemma watched timidly as Morse got her drink and sipped from it before saying anything else. 

“Well, it must be tough for you.” And that was it. Morse set the glass down on the bar and then watched Simmons yet again, waiting for some kind of response – physical or verbal, no doubt – to what she said. What she said, it seemed, was the most ambiguous of all. 

“What must be?” Simmons answered, feeling oblivious and outside the point. This woman, she was realizing, changed topics around faster than anyone she's ever seen – unless of course, they were still talking about Hydra vs SHIELD. In which case, she utterly refused to take the bait. 

“Working for Hydra after being at SHIELD so long.” Morse ran a finger along the edge of her martini glass almost out of boredom. “Now you're working with us – but at a much lower level than you were there. From a science perspective – it must be tough.” 

Simmons bobbed her head in a nod, considering lightly what was said and what was the best way to proceed. “Well, yes, actually.” Admitted the biochemist, drinking a sip from her glass. The room was spinning less since she'd slowed down. “In fact, I've been meaning to mention it to Mr. Bakshi. Perhaps sometime this week.” 

The information laid out, Simmons waited with baited breath, her lungs hitching. The line was cast. Would she bite? 

“Forget Bakshi. You can talk to me about it.” 

Bingo. The offer, that Simmons supposed was meant to be one of confidence and mock trust, simply came off as demanding and domineering as much of the woman's gestures and words did. But the offer was there – and with it Simmons could shoehorn in her original play about her laboratory conditions. Still, the younger woman chose not to give in too easily. “Well, I suppose – but I really should contact Bakshi first. After all, he is my – ”

“I can relay it to him.” Morse's gesture was becoming even more forced, her eyes probing, searching Jemma for some ounce of suspicion. “If you're looking for a raise, he would probably prefer to hear it from me, anyway. Besides, as you know, Miss Simmons,” Peering over her glass with that hard stare that was snake like in its callousness, Morse continued, quiet and taunting, “I'm _very_ interested in what motivates you.” 

Simmons swallowed. The words were almost seductively taunting – she was still under high suspicion, that much was clear. Perhaps making the encounter about work had not been her best choice. But it was time to run with it – after all, there was no backing out, now. “Science is my motivation,” Simmons began matter-of-factly, “and I simply don't believe that Hydra is making the best use of my abilities thus far.” It was a bold statement – but hopefully, Simmons thought, just bold enough to stir the pot. To increase Morse's intrigue. 

“I hear it was you who Bakshi took on the Gill case. That didn't pan out so well. We lost an asset. Perhaps you're overestimating your so-called abilities.” The memory in itself made Simmons feel a coldness spreading from her stomach, upwards to her chest, like a frozen hand grappling for her heart.

“To be fair, that was a field operation. My ambitions are purely laboratory based.”

Jemma could feel her heart banging out of her chest, threatening to jump ship and just emerge from her body and strike the floor. Her dry tongue flopped around inside her mouth, feeling swollen in all her nervousness. It seemed Morse was considering what the young biochemist was saying, her expression was one of digestion – she either was, for once, left speechless (this was something Jemma sorely doubted) or she was internalizing what exactly it was Jemma was asking for. 

In a last ditch attempt to seal the deal, to sell Morse on her case – Jemma let her mouth run with her gut instinct. “I just want to prove myself. Prove that I can really do so much more for you, than you've been allowing me to at this time.” At the clash of their eyes that felt like smashing glass on quartz, Jemma felt a little uneasy flutter in her stomach. 

Something had changed. Morse's expression was devious now, or what Simmons could discern from the deceptive smirk that overshadowed her face, an ominous cloud of sorts. Something in her eyes danced. It was almost playful, for a brief moment. “Hmm. Can you?” 

“Yes.” Simmons said definitively, dodging Morse's mischievous gaze, feeling a little panicked about how quickly the mood had been changed. She wasn't even certain, somehow, if her job was at all what they were discussing anymore. The contextual shift had been intense, the atmosphere – and while Jemma still felt like prey on the run from the most devastating of predators, she couldn't help but feel this shift had somehow entirely altered the nature of the hunt.

“Well, you've got my attention.” Morse said, the thickness and tension of the atmosphere seeming to only billow further, into greater, more expansive clouds. “So, if some kind of promotion is what you want – I'll listen to your proposition at length.” The brunette downed the rest of her martini and set the glass on the bar with a loud clack. “But this is not the place to do it. I hope you don't have any plans to go home, Doctor.”

Simmons could feel herself flushing a little – this was it. She had met her goal, somehow, some way, despite all the blunders and fumbling along the road. She was going to get Morse alone, using this ploy of a promotion (that, for SHIELD advantage at least, would not be a bad thing to gain by any means) and engage in what she had been planning from the start. She had one night to win agent Morse over, to ditch her suspicion and make some kind of odd friendship – one night, and the clock had just started ticking. 

“Yes, I'm available tonight, if you'd like to discuss it. But if you'd rather – ”

“Good. Tonight is fine.” Morse stood up, and stared down upon Simmons, looking every inch a goddess as she played from her position of power. “Now that you've brought it up, you don't really have much of a choice.” 

Simmons began to stand, and swallowed uneasily. She left her half drained drink on the counter and Morse slapped a few bills onto the bar's surface to pay for the three that had been gone through by the two women. Then, Morse nodded curtly towards the entrance to the pub that Simmons had flitted through some hours ago, and said “let's go.”


	5. Chapter 5

And that was how Jemma Simmons had found herself, for the second time that evening, sitting down with a drink in front of her, in a strange environment. Now she had made it to Morse's apartment, somehow in one piece, somehow not having dropped dead of a heart attack. 

They had left the bar and were picked up in Morse's car by the same friend from before. He didn't acknowledge Jemma at all – except, Simmons had noted, the occasional glance into the rear view mirror at her when he thought she wouldn't notice. Morse had seated herself in the passenger's seat. Nobody spoke. 

It was a long, dreadful and unnerving car ride. Simmons did as she had in the taxi on the way down and focused hard on her shoes or the night outside her window. She had made it this far, and the realization both sat heavy in her chest like a burden and elevated her like she was a feather in a breeze. It was both frightening and elating that she had managed to reach her goal. While it meant she knew for certain she could plan something like this, and carry it out – alone – it also meant that it was time for the next step. The next step that would require her to be even more bold. 

They had arrived at the apartment building, and she followed Morse uneasily to apartment number 208. Morse unlocked it and they both entered. This is it, Simmons was thinking as she climbed out of her shoes. If there was no going back before, she knew there was definitely no going back now. If before she was attending her funeral, she was now, officially, six feet under. 

The apartment was meticulously neat. Simmons had expected this, of course. Morse's personality was quite the same way. Tidy and clean to the point of almost being eerie. She was organized and tedious and callous. The temperature in the place was pleasant, and everything was spotless. It was certainly the ideal place for a Hydra meeting, the biochemist thought grimly. 

Morse set her up at the kitchen table, and Simmons situated herself somewhat uncomfortably as Morse turned to the liquor cabinet in the corner. Simmons could see that it was modestly stocked with what appeared to be a collection of expensive alcohol. The brunette removed a bottle of white wine and took two wine glasses down out of the cupboard just above her head, and brought it all over to the table.

Morse still hadn't said anything. Not one word. Not since the bar. Jemma thought she should speak up, perhaps – but what could she honestly say that wouldn't come off as strange? If Morse had anything to say she was certain it would be out in the open by now. But still. “So,” Simmons began, just as Morse was cracking the bottle and pouring a few inches into her own glass. “Do you entertain guests often? Your place is awfully tidy.” 

“No harm in being organized.” Morse commented jadedly, laying the bottle aside and sliding one of the glasses towards Simmons. The liquid inside sloshed a little at the sudden movement, but no droplets made their escape. “It makes my life easier.” 

“Oh, of course.” Simmons agreed, somewhat uneasily. “I too try to keep my space well in order. It's difficult to get anything done otherwise.” 

Morse nodded briefly. It seemed the casual was over just as it was beginning. Simmons gulped, taking a quiet sip of the wine before her as Morse suddenly got to her feet. “Just a minute. I'll be back.”

The chief left the room. It was even more quiet than before, as Simmons sat there, alone. A clock ticked somewhere, the movement of each hand sounding thunderously loud in the silence of the nearly empty apartment. Jemma drank a little of her wine – constantly reminding herself to be slow – and looked at the dull reflection of the kitchen light on Morse's untouched glass. 

The entire night was coming to a head, Simmons reminded herself. She was quickly approaching her endgame here at the apartment. But if Morse kept serving up the drinks at such a steady pace, Simmons was certain her liver wouldn't survive the night. And while being drunk had its perks – like the possibility of not remembering what was going to transpire tonight and allowing herself to be more bold in her advances – things also got significantly more complicated because of it. There were downfalls. She could get sick, or dizzy. Vomiting was an option. And vomiting was not something that was generally accepted as being particularly sexy.

Maybe, Simmons began to consider, as she waited impatiently for Morse, getting her drunk was Morse's entire plan. Drunk people are perhaps some of the most honest in the world – and while there was no real “truth serum” as Skye had once been made to believe by Coulson, alcohol was a close and effective second. 

Jemma didn't think this was an option on her own behalf. After all, she had felt the effects of the gin from the bar on her system in the car ride, and now at the apartment. She was still firmly focused on the mission, her nails sunk deep into her precise objective and she was not about to risk her life because she was a little tipsy. She was a better agent than that. 

Still, though, she wondered where Morse had run off to. Her mind raced to all the most unfortunate possibilities. She was being set up was one dangerous thought among a none-too-friendly herd, and she could feel her heart jumping at just the idea. 

Sitting in anticipation, Jemma was just beginning to go over the particulars of what she would say given such an ambush, when Morse finally returned. Her sudden reappearance jump started Simmons' mind back to the present – and the task at hand. 

“Where did you go?” Jemma asked tentatively, testing the boundaries. 

“That's of no concern to you,” Morse responded harshly, and her eyes were once again as cold as the inner core of the ocean. They pressed into Simmons, still digging, always on the hunt for answers to questions unasked. She drank some wine, taking a seat across from the biochemist. “Now. You wanted to discuss your lab?” 

“Yes,” Jemma began, her nervousness wavering every part of her body but her voice, somehow. It managed to emerge from her frightened frame unscathed, and Simmons moved onward with her proposition, her inner voice all the time reminding her to remain calm. “It's about the samples I was given last week...” 

As Simmons delved into her long winded explanation – that the samples rendered many more capabilities than any initial analysis had revealed – she watched strategically for any change on the part of her superior. Sometimes her eyes would widen as Simmons spun her tale – perhaps in surprise, or perhaps in a vain attempt to not appear bored – and she would sip from her wine glass periodically. 

Simmons, too, absorbed the wine like a thirsty sponge as she prattled on, sometimes vaguely unaware of what she was even saying. Morse's eyes were like a nail, and Simmons was hung on it, tied around it hopelessly, like a piece of string. Her eyes truly were enrapturing, and amazingly clear – and every so often, Jemma could swear she could see beyond the stern shell and into the softer fail safe that lay beneath the Hydra work facade.

Simmons of course, didn't tell her anything SHIELD wasn't already aware of – after all, her samples were closely related to the gravitonium that was recovered from the seizure of the Fridge on the day SHIELD fell. Hydra had taken it and supposedly given it to Ian Quinn - but it would be foolish to think Hydra wouldn't take even a small sample for themselves. And so she had studied it. She had claimed to discover – when in reality, she had discovered this at her own home base long ago – a variety of ways in which these samples could be weaponized, or used to fuel a much greater and more influential weapon. 

This, she knew, would intrigue any Hydra war monger – and Morse, she could tell, was simply this. Always looking for knew ways to trash any and all enemies, to gain compliance from those outside Hydra – and in time the world – such a proposition would be intriguing to say the least. 

As the tale spun on, Morse didn't say a word – but oh, how the wine poured. Simmons finished her glass before she had finished her explanation, and Morse had been done even before that – and so the second glasses were summoned from the long necked bottle of white wine. And then the third. Half way through the third, Simmons could see the room flitting around her again dizzily, and she knew this time any amount of slowing down wouldn't help her case. She was slowly but surely indulging too much, or maybe just enough. Just enough to help her through this op. An unpredictable hand to hold as the night whizzed on.

“So,” Simmons said, finally finishing her ploy, “this is what I intended to bring up to Bakshi. Those samples could render some very interesting and important developments for Hydra weaponry.” 

“But you don't have the proper equipment to explore this in the lab you're currently in.” Bobbi stated, sounding as if she was standing on solid ground with this – and Simmons felt a little glee that she had succeeded and rather, had outsmarted the executive for once. 

“Exactly.” Jemma was pleased with her progress, and brandished a winning, genuine smile. If only Coulson could see her now. She was handling this swimmingly – well, besides the intoxication that was undoubtedly creeping up on her. 

“Well,” Morse began, finishing her third class of the succulent wine, and setting the glass aside. “I'm a little skeptical. But I'll bring it up to Bakshi.” 

Her gaze was as sharp and polished as a knife, and Simmons felt the hair on the back of her neck stand completely on end as a gentle, seductive touch ran up her leg, seemingly out of nowhere. It was Morse's foot. Jemma could feel the blood rushing to her face, quickly and without hesitation, as Morse's foot rolled up to her knee with its soft, nudging touch, and then glided its way back down. Morse kept her eyes trained solid on Jemma the entire time, despite how the biochemist had longed for them to be elsewhere. 

“Perhaps you'll be able to show me just yet how useful you can make yourself.” Her eyes pressed hard, and her words were silky smooth – and dripping with honey. Perhaps it was merely the frame of mind she was stuck in based on her biggest objective, or maybe it was the wine that seemed to be now gushing through her veins, but the context of their conversation seemed to have taken the same shift it did for that fleeting moment when they were at the bar. They were no longer, Jemma felt, discussing Hydra. The feeling of her sliding touch came again full circle, and biting her tongue was all Simmons could do to keep herself from giving into the elaborate shiver that fought for control of her body. 

“When will I, err, know?” Simmons shifted in her seat and shied away from Morse's contact, smiling sheepishly at the woman whose gaze still hadn't budged. 

Morse was brandishing that smug smirk again, that was not quite a smile. “You'll know when I decide to tell you. Until then. Come in for your usual lab duty.” 

Always so hard to get along with, Simmons found herself thinking with an edge of bitterness. But no matter. The night was well underway and before long the deed would be done. While it wasn't something to feel accomplished over, perhaps – she would at least be happy that she wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. Almost any anxiety would pale in comparison to being here in this apartment, across the table from someone so intense. 

Morse was getting out of her seat, and she took her glass over to the kitchen sink. Simmons watched her rinse it with precision, and even the sound of the water running out of the faucet seemed particularly loud and grating. She had definitely had too much to drink. 

Morse laid the glass, upturned, in the dish strainer to her left. Then she turned again to Simmons who simply sat watching her, wondering what the next move would be and how exactly she was going to play out her endgame. 

Morse stretched out her arm a little, hand waiting patiently to be filled by something. “Your glass.” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Simmons grabbed her glass that was still about half way full with the third sitting of wine, and got to her feet rather unsteadily. Jemma hadn't, of course, taken into account that it had been an hour – or perhaps longer – since she had moved from that seat. She hadn't so much as stood up since coming to Morse's apartment, something which she knew, with the alcohol in the equation, immediately was a dangerous duo. 

The room seemed to do a somersault as soon as she rose up onto her feet. The floor and ceiling switched places as she stumbled forward, losing her footing pretty quickly. She felt her breath come in sharply, as her hands fumbled out for anything to steady her quickly fleeing balance – fumbled outward without any regard for the wine glass she still held firmly in her grasp. 

It all happened as quickly as a disorienting series of camera flashes. She stood, stumbled, and managed to steady herself with her fingers gripping the edge of the sink, but not before nearly dropping the wine glass from shaking fingers and spilling what remained inside the shiny glass dome. 

Spilling it all over the front of Morse's shirt. 

The situation in itself was almost so ridiculous that Simmons could feel her heart stop at the same instance that laughter attempted to bubble its jolly way up from inside. Setting the glass on the counter a little louder than she intended, Jemma turned towards Morse and examined from afar the large wet splotch that now invaded her red top like a spot of ink. There was also a drop on her face, just below her chin, and judging from her surprised expression, Simmons didn't know quite what to expect. 

Bobbi looked from her shirt, to Simmons, first with a look of legitimate shock that soon faded to one of almost humor. “Maybe you shouldn't be unwinding, after all.” 

It was Jemma's turn to be surprised. Agent Morse, joking? With her? It seemed like an incredibly odd occurrence, and yet, she knew that if she had consumed enough to be nearly drunk by now, that Morse had indulged in even more – perhaps in enough to finally escape from her Hydra cocoon and stop trying to be intimidating 24/7.   
Jemma laughed but it came out as a purely nervous, uneasy little sound. “I am so, so terribly sorry, agent Morse.” 

Morse didn't immediately turn cold, and for that, Simmons found herself endlessly thankful. “I'll be back,” The brunette began, looking back at Simmons with a flip of her mess of curls over her shoulder, “but then we're calling it a night.” The sternness and control had returned, if only slightly.

Without another backward glance, Morse left the room and disappeared down a dark hallway. Simmons stared after her, a little dumbfounded. How had she managed to lose her balance to such a degree so quickly? It seemed clumsiness was inevitable, and was perhaps heightened by the alcohol in her system. 

And the words “call it a night” instilled in her a whole other level of anxiety. Calling it a night meant getting under the covers, into the sheets, presumably not alone. It meant making her move. A move that could go either way – it could get her the angle she wanted, or it could blow up in her face like a ticking time bomb and ruin her chances in this undercover operation. 

From what she could tell – or from what she was telling herself as she leaned against the counter, dizzy – Morse wasn't completely against such contact with her. She had heard it in her words, suggestive alone even without her slick tone, and then there was the contact under the table to consider. The idea obviously didn't disgust her. Or perhaps she was just toying with her. 

Simmons knew she would be a fool to come this far and get cold feet. Though it was getting increasingly difficult to discern which thoughts were composed of confidence and which were composed of gin and wine, she couldn't deny that boldness was the way to go – it was now or never, and she certainly didn't want to cast off something she had gone through so much hell to take a stab at into the “never” zone. 

Frame of mind solidified despite the nervousness she knew manifested itself in heavy stomach butterflies and a thin layer of cool sweat, Simmons began her pursuit of her superior down the same hall where the tall brunette had disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

At first Jemma was afraid she wouldn't know which of the many doors she could now see as she entered the hallway to choose. But the one at the very end of the low visibility corridor spilled light like a guiding beacon. Simmons made her way towards it unsteadily, uncertain of what her first move would be or how she was even going to go about something that seemed so incredibly absurd most of the time. 

What would she say? Or would it be better to say nothing at all? Simmons went ahead and pushed open the not entirely closed door without quite figuring out the answer to any of her queries. 

The room was just as neat and tidy as the other parts of the house Simmons had seen. Tidy and well stocked bookshelf. The bed was made. There was no clutter on her dresser. In fact, the place looked barely lived in – it was as if she spent little to no time in here at all. But then again, Jemma presumed, being a Hydra agent was perhaps just as busy as being a SHIELD agent – they were both equally hectic jobs, it just so happened that it was the moral line that truly separated them.

The most entrancing part of the room, however, was also in the corner by the dustless, too-tidy dresser – and that was Morse herself. She was digging through a drawer, clad in the same dark pants but she had abandoned the wine drenched shirt into the hamper beside the bed. She didn't seem to notice Simmons' presence until she looked up with a shirt in hand, and then her eyes drew back in startled uncertainty. 

Simmons felt herself flushing, and flushing hard – while it didn't make much sense in hindsight considering how quickly she had followed, Jemma somehow hadn't been expecting to walk in on the other woman half dressed. But yet there she was, caught, ensnared, in their staring contest of sorts. Standing before Simmons, all smooth skin and toned muscle, her crimson bra with a heavily laced exterior supporting a set of perky, smooth looking breasts. 

Always with the red, Simmons thought briskly, trying to shake her embarrassment like the most determined of leeches latched into her very core. She fumbled her hands in front of her as Morse's expression began to harden, and Jemma noticed the smallest peak of color in the other woman's cheeks now – but it could have been the potent concoction of gin and wine. 

The other woman's expression was perhaps at its hardest, and Simmons assumed it was because she hadn't done or said anything since barging in uninvited. She was simply being caught staring, the same thing that she had feared before in the bar. It looked like Morse was going to say something, and by the looks of her further soured expression, Simmons could only assume it would be bad and would drench her chances in utter ruin. 

So, taking a hard swallow, Jemma began to take steps forward, and she could see the previous build up of anger on the tall woman's expression begin to dissolve slightly at her slow advance. Her eyes took on an uncertain, observant gaze – and Jemma could only hope that was better than her previous near rage. 

By the time Jemma got close enough to her to touch, she had managed to swallow her pride entirely. Just a few steps and she had managed to build up her confidence and take down her discomfort just enough to initiate the main part of the plan she had been incubating for so long. Leaning up – much to her chagrin, this meant up onto her very tip toes – Jemma locked her lips onto Morse's and hoped she would with this move ignite the first flames of the Hydra agents full and entire passion. The plan depended on it. 

Morse seemed taken aback at first, and the kiss began shallow, but before long Simmons could feel the Hydra agent's hand on her lower back, the heat of her palm sinking entirely through the fabric of her clothes. There was a muffled whisper as the shirt her superior had been holding fell carelessly to the floor. Morse leaned down a little more which gave Jemma a bit of room to stand again on the flats of her feet comfortably, and the swooping downward motion deepened the kiss to the passionate degree that Jemma had been anticipating. It was working. 

Jemma moved her hands to wreath around the taller woman's shoulders and she could feel the bare skin of her neck beneath her nervous, fumbling hands. Both of Morse's scalding hands were upon her now, sliding around her hips and Simmons was surprised to feel the warm pull of desire deep inside her. This brought a spurt of heat to her cheeks that she wondered if the other brunette could feel as they actively kissed. 

Morse began to move backwards towards the bed, and Jemma's heart jumped with an electric shock composed of both nervousness and excitement as she found she was being dragged along with her. Morse sat on the bed and Simmons, unmindful at this point of the skirt she was clad in, took a seat on the other woman's lap, wrapping her legs around the slender waist before her. The kiss by now had broken and Jemma could feel the executive's hands now fumbling at the buttons of her blouse, beginning at the top. One button fell under her precision and then the second and third down the line, as Simmons traced gentle kisses along the other woman's jawline. Each one left a tiny, barely noticeable brand of red lipstick. 

Morse didn't bother trying to get all the buttons to cooperate, and instead, after she had unbuttoned four, found an entryway into the shirt that Jemma was made aware of relatively quickly by the presence of brisk, groping hands. Morse squeezed the biochemist's modest size bust with a firm, taught grip that was almost too rough, and Jemma found the contact arose in her a small, sharp gasp that trailed off into a quiet moan, a response that she hadn't quite expected from her own body. 

Again feeling the intense heat soaring to her through her whole body, tearing through her, Simmons reveled in the continued massaging of her breasts by Morse who didn't seem to have any intentions of slowing down. Jemma ran her hands down the other woman's back, feeling the silken smooth skin. Each grab had the same rough intensity, and Simmons bit down on her tongue in an attempt to restrain herself.

The younger woman found she was a lot more physically aroused than she had expected she would be in the moment, when it finally arrived – but, she supposed, alcohol played a factor in that as well. It had helped to douse the fire of her anxieties, and while she was still beating off nervousness with a stick simply knowing whose skin she was touching and whose lips she devoured, she found her nervousness had somehow contributed to the excitement that rushed through her veins. 

So this, she thought, as Morse's hands slid sensually down her lower back to rest again on her hips, is what it means to be a spy. 

Morse's actions had begun to slow somehow, and Simmons was picking up on some sort of strange mood that was passing through the air. It was like a distinctively frigid breeze had suddenly passed through the squat space of Morse's bedroom. She could still feel the heat and the presence of the woman's hands, but they had ceased all movement. And her head peaked around Jemma's shoulder, chin practically resting there, leaving Simmons entirely obtuse to her expression. 

As she leaned in to playfully nip at Morse's earlobe in an attempt to fire her suddenly reluctant superior back up, Simmons heard the other woman speak, her quiet voice so close to her own ear that it caused Jemma to shiver. “Simmons.” 

Something about the tone was hard – did she do something wrong? Simmons couldn't help but wonder, despite thinking that things had gone nothing but good so far. Perhaps Morse was onto her plans? This new idea formulated a whole new black cloud of distress in Simmons' mind, and she tried to carry on as if Morse had never spoken at all. 

Jemma kissed the other woman tenderly on the neck, and she felt one of the woman's hands slide deliciously up her spine. Maybe things were fine, she started to think. But as Simmons progressed her line of soft kisses to Morse's collarbone, her voice broke the tense silence of the room once again: “Jemma...” 

This time her tone was incredibly soft – nearly a whisper, and so personal. Nothing about it said agent Morse. Now she was certain something was up. She really was onto her. Jolted back, her first name seeming to affect her like some kind of static electric shock, Simmons somehow managed to look the suddenly sober-looking and intense Hydra agent in the eyes. Then she spoke again. “Jemma. I can't do this.” 

Simmons stared at her, feeling disbelief and horror rise up through her system at incredible speed. What had gone wrong? Everything up until that moment had operated according to plan, and then suddenly, it was Morse getting cold feet? If anyone were to, Jemma had thought it would be herself. But sometimes, she supposed, people are surprising creatures. “What's the matter?” The young scientist asked gently, in a concerned tone, not expecting to be told the problem but expecting fully now to have to swallow rejection. 

“Don't get me wrong,” Morse began, and something about her voice, her face, her entire presence, had drastically altered itself. Suddenly there was a completely different person – a stranger – seated beneath her. The ice in her eyes had melted. Morse reached out to Jemma's face and with her thumb, nudged away what Simmons could only assume was a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. “As much as I wanted to smear that lipstick...I can't do it. Not like this.” 

Simmons could feel the heat rising and erupting onto her skin. What exactly was going on? The fear that she had somehow managed to keep at bay, like a pack of hungry wolves after her heart, had broken loose inside her system. She could feel her heart running a marathon. Her head pulsed and ached. “What are you talking about?” Jemma demanded, confused and embarrassed and afraid, a mixture of emotions that had her wanting to blindly dash out the door. 

“I'm not who you think I am. There's something we need to talk about.”


	7. Chapter 7

Jemma was trapped at the eye of a hurricane. Her disbelief whirled around her, and her fear controlled her like a cruel puppet master – what did she mean by that? 

Jemma stared at Morse, waiting for an explanation, for her to continue, for some leverage she could use to aid her quickly slipping sense of understanding. Something solid to stand on, to grip onto, for otherwise she felt she might not make it out of Morse's apartment in one piece. 

“I'm SHIELD.” 

Two words, and Jemma's world was tossed for an even greater loop. Her body's initial reaction was a jolt of excitement followed by a flood of relief and release – but then, of course, the tightening terror, like a noose, of what she could truly be facing crept in afterwards and filled any empty spaces. Morse was trying to get her to confess, to own up, by pretending to be SHIELD – if Jemma reacted positively, it would be all the evidence needed to ruin her entire Hydra operation. All the evidence needed to seal her fate. “I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, agent Morse...but I've already told you many times, I am loyal to – ”

“Jemma. Enough games. I'm not Hydra and neither are you. It's okay.” Morse's expression had become a polar opposite of the woman that Simmons had known. The ice that formerly gridlocked her eyes and smile into a lock down of sinister seriousness seemed to have vanished. There was even the starts of that full and confident smile playing on her lips.“You're safe.” 

Simmons stared at her, mortified. If she truly was SHIELD...then that changed everything. It changed the nature of what she was doing entirely. But if she truly was working for Coulson, why hadn't she been informed? No. Jemma absolutely refused to believe it. “I'm not going to fall for – ”

“I'm not tricking you.”

Her voice was calm and collected, not an ounce of contempt remaining. Her arms were looped strong around Simmons' waist in a way that was almost an embrace. Something about her entire demeanor had differed, and Jemma began to slowly absorb what it was that was happening. Could she really be telling the truth? 

“Prove it.” Jemma said, voice taught like a tightrope. This was some sort of bizarre test. She could hear her nervousness in her own voice now, a distinct quiver that trembled her words. 

Morse bucked Jemma off of her lap and onto her feet, and headed towards the dresser. She opened the top drawer – that Simmons could see was filled with a wide variety of variously colored bras and panties – and after some time she recovered a small black object that Simmons immediately recognized. 

Morse flipped it open and inside was sure enough, proof – it was identical to Jemma's own SHIELD badge, the only difference being the picture, name and rank. Jemma felt now like her body had become jello. Her brain spun endlessly and recklessly with what she was now learning. 

“Jemma? Are you okay?” Morse flipped the badge closed quickly and returned it to the bottom corner of her drawer, being sure to fully cover it again with a stack of bras before sliding the drawer closed. 

Simmons could hardly comprehend what was happening. All this time, Coulson had another mole in the facility? To what purpose? And it was Morse, of all people? The same agent Morse who had purposefully antagonized and intimated her at every possible moment? The same Morse who Jemma had just attempted to seduce on the basis of establishing a connection with her? 

Something inside of her had snapped. Her fears had become abolished so quickly that she felt it was suddenly a chore to remain standing. All the discomfort, fear, and anxiety she had put herself through since leaving her apartment was in vain, because she was one of them. She's SHIELD. A fantasy could not have turned the tide to be better, and yet Simmons could feel a clog of negative emotions rising from deep within her core. “I think I'm going to be sick.” 

Morse's eyes widened. Perhaps she hadn't expected Jemma's full bewilderment and her entire distress to be so massive, but regardless, Simmons before long felt the strong arm of her newly discovered SHIELD colleague around her shoulders leading her warmly to the washroom. 

Once inside, Simmons was pleased to find she didn't get sick. But she did slide her back down the door until she reached the floor, clutching her knees to her chest. Her body may have been fine for the moment, but her mind was reacting almost violently to this unexpected discovery. 

Her emotions had become a tangled ball of yarn inside her body. The fear she had felt was attempting to escape and getting tangled in the relief; her discomfort, embarrassment and slight drunkenness created such a powerful cluster that it forced her chest to be so tight it felt impossible to breathe. 

Morse was SHIELD. This entire personal operation was a failure – and yet, for the best possible reasons. And yet, not because Jemma herself had failed – rather, because she had succeeded. It was because Morse wanted to sleep with her that prompted her confession. It was because Jemma had successfully seduced her. But why hadn't she just gone through with it and saved Jemma the confusion and awkwardness now? 

A soft rap on the door. “Jemma?” A hesitant voice. Still firm and strong, by all means, but something about it was a complete 360 from the Hydra persona that the woman so skillfully projected. 

Jemma was startled by the knock. She jumped a little, inhaling deeply, wondering if she should answer – trying to bat away her negative feelings that still stormed her system. Her relief, however, was mighty, and she could feel it warming up her hands and feet that had grown so cold since Morse first took her hands off the scientist and made her aware that things were wrong. 

Jemma stood up, unsure of how long she'd been in there, and brushed herself off with her hands and went to the mirror. “I'm alright,” She called out to Morse uneasily, still finding herself wary of the woman. Because while she truly wasn't Hydra – she still sort of registered in that way. And even the Hydra-Morse that Simmons had known for the short expanse that she did was more familiar than this new SHIELD stranger. 

“Can I come in?” 

Jemma eyed herself in the mirror. She touched her hair a little, tousling the disheveled curls. She could see that her shirt was still open, and so she brought her shaking fingers to button the four that Morse had undone, cringing all the while about what she had tried to do now that she knew who she was really dealing with. She could see in the mirror the blush that flitted to her pale cheeks, highlighting them a delicate rose. “Yes,” She decided, finally, just as she had sealed the last button. 

Upon examination of her face, Jemma noticed the residue of tear streaks – so lost in thought, she hadn't even realized, it seemed, that her mulled emotions had brought the rain along with them as they stormed her system. There was now faint railroad tracks of mascara fading down her cheeks. 

The doorknob turned, and Morse entered, her expression cautious. She had thrown on a Star Wars t-shirt. It was not the same one that had been in her hand when Jemma kissed her. “Hey. Look,” She began, leaning on the door frame as if to stay a safe distance away from Simmons, in the way that a civilian keeps their distance from a frightened doe. “I'm sorry for laying all this on you. I just couldn't let you go through with that without – ”

Just having the intense brunette bring up what had almost come to be brought Simmons' embarrassment to revisit her again and she cut the other woman off, uncomfortable, “It's truly alright, agent Morse. I understand why you did what you did.” Jemma forced a smile through her overbearing confusion and discomfort, like a delicate beam of sun peaking through a haze of dark clouds. 

“Please, call me Bobbi.” 

“Bobbi.” Simmons repeated the new title, testing the water, figuring how it tasted on her tongue. Then she smiled again, a little less forced this time. She recognized that this Bobbi had blown her cover on a moral basis – a concept that SHIELD agents sometimes weren't all too familiar with. She had done it for her. “You don't have to feel bad about it, really,” Jemma began, scrubbing at the mascara marks on her face while looking in the mirror. “I appreciate what you've done. And truth be told I've probably just had too much to drink.” 

Bobbi chuckled at this, and Jemma could feel her face lighting on fire again just from the solid knowledge that the brunette's eyes were still upon her, steadily grazing, as she preened in the mirror. “That's also pretty much my fault, huh?” 

Jemma laughed a little at this, feeling some of the tightness in her chest loosening up a little. The better half of this good news had begun to work its slow but effective magic on her system now, and she could see clearer the bigger picture. Despite the whole situation, the almost seduction that would without a doubt sit on the back of her mind for weeks like the embarrassing fumble that it was, this news clearly outweighed that – she really did have a friend in the ranks of Hydra. A real one.

Jemma abandoned the mirror then, and turned fully towards Bobbi for the first time since their encounter in the bedroom. The eye contact that she was forced to make was somehow less awkward than she had been expecting. But Bobbi was approaching her – and a familiar feeling of her heart squirming its way into her throat passed through her yet again. 

Then Bobbi's arms were around her, suddenly, and Jemma could feel some of that nervous tension melt away. While she may have known the intimidating “Agent Morse” from Hydra longer than she knew the real person behind the mask, there was no doubt at all that she definitely wouldn't have gotten a comforting hug from that cold and callous “Hydra agent” anytime in hell. 

Simmons stood on the edge of her toes again, sheepishly, for it was the only way she could have any hope of her chin even coming remotely close to Bobbi's shoulder. Bobbi's embrace was strong – not in the intense way that Skye sometimes hugged that threatened to detach her body into equal halves. It was also unlike the soft, gentle way in which Fitz administered hugs, almost no pressure in his embrace at all, like squeezing a ghost. It was somewhere in between the two – just strong enough to allow Simmons to feel a degree of safety she hadn't felt in some time. Strong enough that it seemed Bobbi could stand for the two of them. 

Face buried in Bobbi's collarbone, Jemma could feel her eyes beginning to well up again despite how intensely she tried to resist her own body's unbearable emotional intensity. It was the arms around her. It was the other woman's comforting heat. It was simply that she was safe now – she seemed to finally be fully realizing that the danger from the op, both Coulson's and her own, had vanished. Bobbi's supportive embrace spoke volumes about who she really was – and it seemed to be the true materialization of that safety that Simmons had had some trouble absorbing and accepting. 

“I know this op has been difficult for you,” Bobbi began, and her voice was close to Jemma's ear again, just as it had been in the room when all this had begun. “so Coulson wanted me in there to watch your back. If you want, we can go sit down and I'll explain everything.”

Simmons nodded, the gesture nudging against Bobbi's body as she attempted to stifle back the unwanted tears. The last thing she wanted to appear as now was even more emotionally fragile than she had perhaps already appeared, and yet, it seemed an impossible feat, a struggle too difficult to conquer. 

Reluctantly, it almost seemed, Bobbi released the embrace slowly, and slid her hands from Jemma's back, to her shoulders. She then ran them down the slopes of the scientists arms, and the gesture gave Jemma a little shiver that she refused to acknowledge. Bobbi's hands glided with precision all the way down, until she had grasped both of Simmons' hands into her own. 

Jemma smiled at the ease of Bobbi's contact, how simple it occurred to her to reach out and touch, and how it, so far that she could tell, seemed to always be at the perfect moment in the perfect way. A lot of SHIELD agents, and Melinda May unreservedly popped into Jemma's mind, had a lot of trouble making harmless physical contact with others. But not Bobbi. 

Bobbi smiled sympathetically at the fresh tracks that the hot, rotund tears had left behind on Jemma's otherwise flawless and clear complexion. She gave Jemma's hands a confident little squeeze. “Once I explain all this to you, you'll feel better.” Bobbi removed her hands then from the gentle hold they had on Jemma's, and reached up to smear away one of the prominent streaks of water with her thumb. The result was a sort of face caress that summoned up long silent butterflies in Jemma's stomach, Morse's soft fingers touching her intimately under the chin. “I promise.” 

Jemma found she was truly beginning to believe Bobbi's words – after all, once she had shed the mask of who she was pretending to be, she had come off as a very genuine person with non-sinister motives. Bobbi smiled, releasing her hold – physically, but perhaps not mentally, Jemma noted with some chagrin – on the biochemist and started out the door. “I'll be in the kitchen. Come out when you're ready.” 

Bobbi disappeared out the door, and Jemma watched where she had departed for just a moment – exhaling slowly and quietly now that she was alone. Somehow, she was still nervous – but the feeling, she found, was transmitting itself to her form in an entirely different way now. It was not nervousness about whether or not she would be found out, tortured and killed. Not anymore. It was something else – something Simmons decided it would be best to leave virgin, untouched deep inside her chest. 

As she was turning back towards the mirror, Bobbi's voice suddenly returned to the quiet hub that was the washroom. “Oh, and Jemma,” The tall brunette had poked her head into the room, most of her body coiled around the other side of the wall. She gave Simmons a long look over as the scientist turned back around to face her, startled, and then resumed, “your buttons are wrong.” 

The look on her face as she said it was playful, a side of the true her Simmons had yet to see until that moment. Her smile reflected a hint of humor with a spark of mischief. It was still, without a doubt, one of the most exquisitely beautiful smiles Jemma had ever seen. Then she had left again. This time, Jemma waited with baited breath, and before long she heard activity in the kitchen down the hall and knew she wasn't going to return this time. 

When she knew it was safe, Jemma turned quickly in the mirror and proceeded to be mortified at the lopsided fashion in which she had resealed her buttons. There was a certain degree of spunk in Bobbi, that was for certain, Jemma discerned as she hotly undid and redid her buttons. It was something she had never even imagined when she had hatched this perhaps un-unique plan days ago. But then again, none of this, not an ounce, had ever been anticipated. 

Bobbi herself was an enigma that had crept up upon on Simmons without a second's notice. Jemma looked forward to hearing the explanation that was behind all the madness and emotion she had waded through tonight, waist deep. And so, why wait? Sucking in a hard inhalation and perhaps an even harder swallow, Simmons made sure that her face was clear of mascara footprints and her buttons were done properly before she scraped up what was left of her courage and exited into the hallway.


	8. Chapter 8

Simmons entered the kitchen hesitantly, and found Bobbi setting out a plate of crackers. “Want some more wine? You might need it.” She said jokingly when she saw Simmons, grinning, and laying the plate onto the table. 

“I think I'm quite fine, thank you.” Jemma responded in good humor, taking the same seat that she had formerly occupied when they had had their conversation earlier. 

“Then here.” Bobbi set down a tall glass of water to Jemma's left. “Sober up.” Then Bobbi took a seat across the way from Simmons, just as before, with a glass of water at her side as well. “So. I don't even know where to start.”

Jemma could evaluate the juxtaposition of this conversation as compared to the last, before it had even begun. They had water, not wine. The brunette across from her was now Bobbi from SHIELD, instead of agent Morse from Hydra. The conversation was one that Jemma could find some comfort and relief in – unlike last time when it had been a steep bet to worm her way into the private, upper levels of Hydra. This conversation hadn't even progressed and it already seemed so much more favorable.

Simmons drank from her water glass, and then settled comfortably into her chair. “Start wherever you like.”

“Okay. Well. After SHIELD fell. Coulson found me, just like the other agents he's brought to your team recently.” Bobbi's voice was unshakably clear and confident, not an ounce of uncertainty present. “I didn't even know that there was any fraction of SHIELD left – so I was pretty surprised when he told me he was the new director and that he had orders for me should I choose to accept them.”

Jemma nodded, keeping along with the story, steadily supplying herself with crackers and water in the hopes that they would help to quell some of the alcohol she could still feel the effects of in her system. 

“His orders were to infiltrate Hydra. So with some help from him and a couple of other agents I managed to get myself into the upper levels.” Bobbi continued stonily, her tone gaining more serious weight. “My position got SHIELD a lot of valuable information regarding security and security issues, but Coulson wanted access to high level projects. And by then he already had you in there for that. And he just sort of wanted me to watch your back, make sure you were safe, without telling you who I was – so obviously that part didn't work out too well.” She laughed a little, a quiet sound in the already hushed environment of the apartment. 

“I see,” Jemma interjected, cracking a cracker in half and laying both pieces on the table in front of her. “Why didn't he want me to know?” She ate one of the halves tentatively.

“Well, he just felt like you might let your guard down a little if you knew there was an ally in the ranks.” Bobbi explained. “He didn't want to risk anything happening to you,” Bobbi paused, slowly making some deeply intertwined eye contact with Jemma before continuing, “and neither did I. So I agreed not to tell you.” 

Jemma mulled over what she had heard for a moment, drinking a mouthful of water. She supposed it made sense. If she knew there was a safety net, she probably – even subconsciously – wouldn't have been as careful. It was very Coulson. He was always one step ahead – and of course he would ensure that she was safe above all else. “I understand. But what happens now?”

“Now?” Bobbi seemed confused by the question at first, but before long trailed out an answer. “Well, we continue at Hydra as normal. We'll keep each other's covers going, and then when the time comes, we'll get out of there.” Bobbi paused, swallowing a gulp of water, and then added with a small smile, “together.” 

_Together._ Simmons liked the sounds of that. It helped to evaporate other fears that were in play in her system – like how and when she would defect from Hydra and if she would be able to get away unscathed. But Bobbi reeked of absolute confidence, and Jemma had no doubts that they would have any trouble escaping if they were together. “So Bobbi. All that harassing you've been doing. That was all part of the act?” 

Bobbi watched her tentatively, for Jemma's reaction, as she spoke. “Of course. I really am sorry about that. I had a few other security issues in play at the time. I know I probably freaked you out.”

“You were quite intimidating,” Simmons admitted with a timid laugh, and then resumed, “quite a good show, actually. Well. Now that I know it was a show, that is.”

Bobbi laughed heartily. “That's fair. It's hard to be like...a super serious “Hydra” person all the time. It's a relief that I can be honest with you now.” 

“Believe me, Bobbi, it's a relief to me, as well...” Jemma smiled and glanced into Bobbi's eyes, before dodging away from the eye contact timidly. “I don't think you realize how nerve wracking it was to come here.” 

“But it's not so bad now, right?”

“Right.” 

Simmons found she couldn't wipe the smile from her features. Things had truly turned out amazingly, despite how her body had rejected it initially like a donated organ. Bobbi was such a nice person, truly – and she had never expected to feel so cool and calm in her presence. 

Cool and calm, but not entirely – something else inside her had woken up. She felt a certain tension in the air despite her mood that had increased generously into the positive spectrum. Probably, she thought with a gulp, it was what had begun to occur on Bobbi's bed that had opened up this trench inside of her. In time, if she chose to ignore it, it would perhaps grow small and disappear. “It was really very nice of you to explain everything to me. I do appreciate it. Coulson's not going to be upset with you, is he?” 

Bobbi smiled, but the tension Jemma could see in it betrayed the fact that perhaps Bobbi had already considered some repercussions to not following the proper orders. “Well, maybe. But I think he'll understand my situation once I explain it to him.” 

_Explain it to him._ Just the thought of Coulson finding out what she had done – or what she had gone to do, only to be graciously stopped by Bobbi – gave her a concoction of mixed feelings to swirl in her system. The idea of Bobbi telling Coulson or any of her teammates anything of the sort was almost too embarrassing of a conjecture to consider. But at the same time, her execution of the plan, her meticulous planning, and steady pains to carry this burden alone she hoped would at least be considered admirable.

“I know you don't want me to tell him,” Bobbi began, and Simmons could feel herself blushing a little. It was like she was some kind of mind reader. “But you know that I have to. He needs to understand why I – ” 

“I understand, Bobbi. You don't need to worry about it. This is on me.” Jemma said, sternly, trying to work her body and mind to the point where she could readily accept full responsibility for what she had attempted to initiate. 

“But we don't have to tell anyone else about it.” Bobbi extended this offer to Simmons like a hand, and it felt as pleasantly comforting to Jemma in that moment just as the taller woman's embrace did in the washroom some time ago. 

“Thank you.” Simmons breathed a little sigh of relief. Then, an awkward chuckle. “God knows what they would think of me.” 

“They'd probably think, damn, she's good,” Bobbi grinned at Simmons' surprise, and then continued, adding a brisk wink into the mix that made Jemma's stomach do a reluctant flip flop. “But we'll keep it under wraps.” 

Unable to hold back a short giggle, Simmons wrapped her hand around the heavy condensation on her water glass. It felt cool and sobering under the heat of her palm, as she avoided Bobbi's gaze. “I have one more question for you.” 

“Shoot,” Bobbi replied, tipping her water glass to touch smooth lips. 

“Who was that man you were at the bar with?” 

Bobbi laughed at this a bit, in good humor, and then gently set the glass down. “He's a friend of mine. A SHIELD friend. He had to beat it in order for me to play Hydra agent with you when I noticed you across the way.” 

Jemma thought about asking her if he was her boyfriend, but she supposed despite as much as she was truly interested in knowing, it was too much to pry into. After all, it was none of her business – and that knowledge as well gave her a sinking feeling in her gut. She also resisted the urge to ask if Bobbi had known since the beginning that Jemma had followed her in the cab – but she supposed the once deeply secretive brunette already knew, she was just choosing not to say. 

“He actually works with Coulson and your friends now, too,” Bobbi continued. “His name's Mack. I'm sure you'll get to know him a bit more once you come back to SHIELD. From what I hear, he's gotten pretty close to Fitz.” 

Fitz. Just his name these days was enough to ease Jemma's heart into breaking territory. She didn't want to think of him, so changed, so different, so alone – and all because of her. She didn't want to think of his terror, because dwelling on it made her own terror so apparent. Her own paralysis in the face of change. Everything was transparent when she thought of Fitz – all things had come to light. Hidden feelings and sacrifices – and she wasn't ready to attempt to swallow that down. 

“I'm sorry.” Suddenly, Bobbi's clear and bold voice broke through her thoughts that had been so intensely filled with gloom. It brought Simmons back to reality with a start – and she supposed that the dread that had passed through her mind with an all-encompassing force had also left its brand on her face. “I didn't mean to hit a nerve.” 

“It's alright.” Simmons replied, and she was beginning to think that it was – or that it could be. For the first time in a long time. The revelation of Bobbi had seemed to regrow some of the hope in her system that had been utterly destroyed by the frost Hydra had brought into her life. Bobbi who was so calm, kind, confident – perhaps with her help, Jemma could begin to sew together the massive hole that had been ripped in her relationship with Fitz. The one she was desperate to seal.

Silence prevailed for a time, and Jemma could hear the dull slamming of each flick the clock's hands made as she had when first arriving. It sounded now, however, like a peaceful metronome, and not like the sinister reminder of time running out. 

Bobbi got up from her chair and gathered the glasses and the plate, and laid them on the counter. Then she turned around and their eyes snagged. Jemma was wringing her hands together on her lap like a nervous tick, and she waited for the silence to be broken – either by herself, or by her newest SHIELD colleague. 

“Maybe we should call it a night for real this time,” Bobbi said, another wan smile crossing her features. “It's like one in the morning.”

“I thought it was later, honestly.” Jemma replied, standing up from her chair. 

“I have a guest room you can stay in. It's the one across the hall from the washroom. I can bring you in some of my pyjamas.” 

The conjecture alone reminded Simmons of slumber parties with friends when she was a young girl. Crashing at one another's houses,staying up late when they weren't allowed, borrowing pyjamas and sleeping in late. Something about how the night was choosing to end was oddly reminiscent. “That sounds lovely.” The biochemist replied with a tight smile. 

“Alright then. After you,” Bobbi smirked, gesturing with her hands for Simmons to head down the hallway. 

Jemma began to walk, but then she turned back on a whim, feeling the jokester in her (who was nearly completely buried these days, she was reluctant to admit) coming out to play for just a brief moment in time. Jemma put on her most serious face, and faced Bobbi who looked a little in wonder of why she had stopped. “One more thing,” 

Bobbi just looked at her, her thoughts unreadable. “Go ahead.” 

Jemma extended her hand and poked a finger directly onto Bobbi's chest. “Star Trek is better.” The smile she had been attempting to keep under wraps finally burst through her best efforts when she saw Bobbi's perfectly timed expression of mock offense.

“Jemma Simmons! I thought you had better taste than that,” Bobbi reciprocated with a playful elbow jab into the younger girl's arm. “For that,” She continued, pushing past and heading for the hallway, “I'm taking away your walk-ahead-of-me privileges.” 

Bobbi disappeared down the hallway in a flash and Jemma headed after her, still sporting a jaunty grin as she too vanished into the darkness. 

Jemma went into the guest room that was just as pleasant as the rest of the apartment. It was modestly furnished, with just a bed, a small bookshelf and a dresser. There was a digital clock on an end table beside the bed. Jemma entered deeper and turned down the covers on her bed. 

Soon, Bobbi had come in behind her and tossed a pair of pants and loose shirt onto the bed. The sudden movement startled Jemma slightly, but she found herself riding a smile yet again when she saw that it was just Bobbi poking her head in the door with that beautiful, trademark grin. “Here you go, you traitor.” 

Jemma emitted yet another laugh, and found herself wondering where the previous stress of the evening had even gone in all the relaxation and safety she felt now. She picked up the clothes and held them tight in her hands. “Truly, thank you, Bobbi. For everything.” 

“Don't worry about it, Jemma.” Bobbi was, without a doubt, one of the most confident people Jemma had ever met at that point. It seemed she didn't even have to spend time mulling over what to say or how to act, that her head, heart and mouth all acted seamlessly together. It took no thought on her part to know what she was about to say was correct and would put the other person at ease. “I'll just be in the other room if you need anything.” 

And with that she was gone, and Jemma heard the finality of the other bedroom door closing. Jemma walked over and closed her own, not before taking in a solid glance at the solid white door that separated them. She could see it from her room by peeking her head around the corner, and something about its presence filled her to the brim with longing. 

Somewhere deep inside her, as she closed the door and began to undress, Jemma felt something swelling and pulsing. This pressure was burning to be touched, acknowledged – and she knew it was this same overcoming pulsing in her core that had her somehow wishing she was staying in Bobbi's room, in her bed, after all, rather than occupying the lonely guest bedroom. The trench that had opened up inside her was not vanishing, despite her ignorance of it. It was growing, and trying to tear her apart. 

The mere idea of staying in Bobbi's bed caused coarse feeling butterflies to flutter and dance inside of her, and Jemma decided it was worth a try to remove this aching part of her as if with surgery. Fully and entirely remove it, so that its pining would not completely ruin what remnants of a decent nights sleep she could still gather.


	9. Chapter 9

Sleep was not going to come easily for Jemma, and that much she knew as soon as she pressed her exhausted form between the cool sheets. Too much had gone on today for her mind to settle to a road that was even remotely smooth, too much stress and anxiety, and the the shock of finding out what was really going on just under her nose. 

It had been a roller-coaster of a day. Ups and downs, negatives and positives, and they all shocked her system at once, now that she was alone in the dark. When it was time for the body to rest, she mused, the brain often determined it was time for it to be more active. The human form in itself was a paradox.

She mulled over the days events, and over Bobbi – she really was an incredible agent. Not only had she gone undercover so easily and without hesitation after thinking SHIELD was completely sunk – but she went in on the recommendation of a man she didn't know before. She was fighting the good fight despite what Hydra had thrown at them. She had gone in with the specific objective of watching Jemma's back, and that in itself spoke volumes, at least to the biochemist, about the woman's true motives and her personality.

Bobbi was funny, kind, functional, morally sound, talented – truly amazing, in fact, and her beauty seemed to seal all these factors together into an incredibly gorgeous human being. Jemma was in fact, surprised that she had never heard of her before the fall of SHIELD. 

Staring at the blackness of the ceiling and occasionally the red etched numbers on the digital clock to her left, Simmons wondered when she would be able to clear her mind. Settle these endless thoughts and her body's jittery feeling. 

And that center inside her – the one that seemed to twitch and vibrate with a need to be touched whenever she let her mind graze Bobbi – also hadn't chosen to settle down much, despite her efforts. She couldn't help but think of Bobbi the way she had been earlier. Her soft skin, how impressively attractive she looked half dressed. The flush on her cheeks, the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair and the hot texture of her hands. The thoughts made Simmons feel somehow dirty. 

She tried to ward them away when they were summoned by her unconscious, and she could only feel the tension within her tighten and threaten to give way whenever she did. It had been a long time since she had pined over someone so exquisitely hard, and it was perhaps the one single time she had after only knowing them such a short time. But somehow it overpowered everything. And it seemed to come out of nowhere. 

Perhaps, she thought hollowly, she wanted to sleep with Bobbi now because she knew she could do so merely for pleasure. She could do so simply because she wanted to – nothing to do with Hydra or SHIELD, no trying to dangerously seduce her boss because she wasn't her boss. No stress or pressure. Just the bliss and the thrill. Especially, she thought, as a delicious shiver flitted enthusiastically up her spine, the thrill.

Now, she began to wonder with a sense of sheepishness, did all these thoughts mean that she had been wanting her plan to succeed all this time? Despite who she had thought Bobbi was in the beginning? The danger had certainly increased the thrill – and even despite what she initially thought Bobbi's affiliations were, she couldn't deny that even then she had considered her overwhelmingly attractive. 

Jemma had always been somewhat bi-curious, and while she had never really gotten the chance to test and stretch said muscle, she had had a few instances in her young life where she had found that a woman had drawn her in like an intense gravitational pull. Desire. Eliciting this behavior in her, these thoughts, this feeling of craving satisfaction. That ignited flame just below the surface.

The last time she recalled it was when she was around the late Victoria Hand, who dominated SHIELD with the true expertise of a professional. It brought up bitter feelings when she remembered what had happened to the poor woman, and Jemma dismissed the thoughts so as not to bring back the pain of heart wrenching emotions and tears that she had left behind earlier in the night.

But Bobbi was the closest she had come to a true experience with another woman – and now she found she craved exploration more than she ever had before. She remembered kissing Bobbi, how somewhere inside she had felt the pleasant and somehow persuasive tingle of pleasure. Jemma wanted to bring that back – as much as she was certain she would deny it when the daylight once again returned to cleanse her body and mind with its clarity. But here, alone, in the blackness, she was safe, and she admitted her desire only to herself. She wanted Bobbi Morse with a intensity so deep she felt one wrong step would cause her to drown in it. 

Suddenly, as if her willpower alone could etch reality, Jemma's door began to open. She heard the distinctive squeak that she remembered from closing it, and suddenly her insides felt like cement. She was frozen to the bed. Was Bobbi coming into her room?

Perhaps it would be best to pretend I'm asleep, she thought, remaining under the covers, still finding she was unable to move as slow feet grazed the hardwood floor beside the bed. But then she began to wonder where such an absurd idea had been born – hadn't she just been running her mind so delicately over the prospect of spending the night in the other woman's bed? And hadn't her body been reacting so amazingly, helplessly, at even just the idea? 

Jemma shook the frost from her frame that was sealing her in place, and rooted her hands into the mattress, pushing herself slowly into a sitting position just as Bobbi was getting close. “Bobbi?” She asked to the semi-darkness, although she could definitively make out the other woman's slender silhouette. 

“I wasn't sure if you were awake.” Bobbi said, and her words were brisk as she towered over the half sitting Jemma, who could feel her heart beginning palpitate at rapid speeds.

“I am,” Jemma breathed out, antsy, nervous, agonized – was she here to fulfill her tantalizing inner desires? Or was she there simply because there was something she had forgotten to tell her during their kitchen conversation?

“I also wasn't sure if you were up for the company,” Bobbi continued, not making any further movements, and her stillness somehow unnerved Jemma a little. She didn't seem like the type to hesitate. However, it had been an odd day for them both, Jemma considered. 

_Company._ Jemma swallowed. That word seemed to elicit a motive that was deeper than having just forgotten to say something. It was a word pregnant with meaning. This was the moment she had been pining over not even ten minutes before. Weighing what the prospects were for such a thing. And now, one word from her would change it all – one word, one phrase. A whispered agreement in the dark. 

“I didn't think you'd come,” Jemma found herself saying, her voice quiet as if transferring a secret, barely above a whisper, “I was hoping you would.”

There was a small and short exhale from Bobbi somewhere above her, one that Simmons coined as relief. “I couldn't stay away,” There was a distinctive hint of honey to her words again, the way Simmons remembered them being during her inherently seductive comments much earlier in the kitchen. When she was “agent Morse” of Hydra. 

Then the first move was launched, and it happened to Simmons as if in slow motion. Suddenly Bobbi was climbing into the bed, her weight further pressing the mattress, and soon pressing into Simmons. Bobbi climbed directly on top of her and wasted no time in pushing their lips together.


	10. Chapter 10

Excitement jolted Simmons to life, and any fatigue or sleepiness that had overcome her system seemed to dissipate like morning dew after the sun comes up. She delved into Bobbi's deep kiss and devoured it, feeling that spot inside her sorely throb for more of this woman who was taking no time in removing any space or reservations between them. 

Bobbi's hands spared not a moment in getting moving along Simmons' skin, pushing up her shirt and Jemma felt the shiver of slender fingers sliding up her curves. Jemma found that her boldness had increased now that she was trying this the second time, and she too let her own hands explore more freely Bobbi's body. 

As her fingertips slid smoothly down Bobbi's back, she began to push the other woman's shirt up and before long she felt the back strap and clasp of Bobbi's bra, begging to be released and removed. Or perhaps Jemma herself was pining for it. Either way, her confidence hadn't risen to such a degree that she was able to do anything with it just yet, and so she let her hands coax down the woman's soft back yet again until she had reached her very lower back, the waistband of the other woman's pants beneath her fingertips. 

By now their long winded, passionate kiss had broken, and Bobbi was applying rough kisses to Jemma's neck. Heart rate and breathing rate increasing as the ordeal only got heavier, Jemma could feel the lacy exterior of panties nudging shyly out of the back of Bobbi's pants. Feeling the texture under her hand soaked her body with all the more desire, and Jemma could feel the desperate pulsing of an absolute need to be pleasured - and to pleasure - beginning to rise inside of her. 

Bobbi's hands before long invaded her shirt entirely, and Simmons could feel the same rough hands as before coming into contact with her breasts. This time one hand, on the hunt for a nipple encased inside the biochemist's bra, located the distinctive, sensitive spot and gently pinched.

Jemma felt a sharp exhale shred through her, and could feel the heat of absolute sensuality rising to warm her skin and rain upon it a light sweat. Bobbi did almost nothing and it was driving her wild, and Jemma was helpless to stifle a longing moan as her newest teammate repeated the pinching motion with a little more intensity. She dug her modestly short fingernails into Bobbi's back in the spike of pleasure and excitement it awoke in her. 

Bobbi's mouth was upon her ear then, suddenly, planting a gentle kiss on the lobe, her quickened breath as loud as a megaphone and only increasing the degree to which Simmons found herself hopelessly turned on. “I love how you sound,” Bobbi whispered directly in her ear, breathy, ending with a sharp little bite to the lobe of Simmons' ear before moving so that their lips could once again come together.

Jemma, for once unreservedly as her desire forged new courage inside her, reached her hands out to grasp onto the other agent's breasts, first taking care to slip underneath the t-shirt that the taller agent still wore. The kiss broke. All she could hear was her own heartbeat and quickened breath that went in time with Bobbi's. The lace texture of Bobbi's bra teased the skin beneath her palms, and Jemma discerned that it must be the same one from before. Her touch, she knew, was significantly softer than Bobbi's was – but the gesture still seemed to conjure up the right reaction from Bobbi. 

Bobbi hissed out a heated breath at Simmons' touch, and Jemma could feel the thunderous beating of her heart that threatened to rip through the t-shirt belonging to Bobbi that she still wore. The feeling was indescribably overwhelming, as Bobbi pushed herself against Simmons' hands, grinding their bodies together. The motion prompted Jemma to handle her a little more roughly, and at the increase of the pressure from Jemma's hands, an anticipated moan sailed its way from Bobbi's system. The sound erupted only more excitement in Jemma, as Bobbi began to suddenly move positions. 

She wondered sheepishly what the other woman might be doing – not that it mattered a great deal at this point, because she was almost certain that the frame of mind she had worked herself into was ready to let Bobbi Morse do anything she wanted to her. 

Bobbi ran a trail of kisses down Jemma's stomach, and the soft, short lived little pecks sent a steady flow of goosebumps to coat her skin. The kisses got closer to her petite hips, and Jemma found herself squirming as Bobbi began to tug none-too-timidly at the waistband of the borrowed pyjamas. Each soft, heat ridden kiss that was dropped along her hip bone, dangerously close to the sweet, pining spot where she truly wanted to be touched and kissed by the brunette, elicited further desire to multiply inside Simmons. “...Bobbi...” She found herself gasping more than once as the hot kisses and breath inched closer and closer, her pants sliding fully off as Bobbi effortlessly worked her way down.

And suddenly, Jemma was alone. Alone and awake. 

The sweat cascaded over her body as if she had not too long ago been rained on, and she sat up from her position tucked deep under the covers to sit up in a panicked rush. Where was she? What had happened? 

Looking around the room with fatigued eyes, Jemma looked for anything familiar in her daze. The harsh, insincere red letters of the digital clock was the first thing to snag her eye. 3:23 AM. And then suddenly, as if with the snap of fingers, she remembered everything. Her sleepy stupor faded like a thin fog. 

Her former plan, the unexpected confession from Bobbi – that she was at Bobbi's still, in her pyjamas. In the guest bedroom. But hadn't they...? Wasn't she...? 

Jemma rested her head gently against the headboard and kicked the away the blankets in a fury, tangled around her feet as they were, like snakes. Her body felt like a volcano, expelling heat and magma and smoke in her exasperation as she realized with a certain, definitive feeling of being absolutely flustered, that it was a dream. It was all a dream. A deeply enrapturing, realistic and unfortunately sensual wet dream. 

Jemma put her hands over her face and found she was almost ready to laugh at her own ridiculousness. Truly, she wanted Bobbi worse than she had even anticipated, for dreams most often betrayed innate, untouched, unsatisfied desires. She released a shaky sigh, her body stuck in a series of knots that she couldn't quite get undone. She could feel the desire still twisting around inside of her, stirred up from the cruel charade of the dream world. 

Yes, she was certainly stirred up – so much so that she didn't imagine she would be coming down anytime soon. Jemma pushed up her shirt so as to allow more cold air to grace her hopelessly overheated body. 

Jemma lay there for a long time, confused, distressed, and almost incomprehensibly aroused, wondering what her next move should be. As nice as it would have been to sleep again and return to the same desirable dream, she knew the prospects were more than unlikely. 

She thought once or twice about flitting out of bed and going and sliding into Bobbi's – she could wake her up, and maybe carry on with the original seductive plan as originally sketched out for her evening. But even just the idea grazing her mind caused her cheeks to burn up and her insides to squirm with a combating mixture of intense nervousness and an intense need for Bobbi to utterly tear through her. 

She didn't know which part of that mix her brain wanted to favor. But either way, that would never work – after experiencing such a hair-raising, realistic dream, she imagined she'd never be able to sneak in there with any trace of a straight face left on her. She was simply too needy now, too desperate, and that left her with only one ultimatum. 

Another few moments ticked away from her, after a time tucking herself back into the covers for the cooling of her sweat having turned her cold, Jemma made her final decision. She had to leave. It was perhaps the only way she could get any sleep, or the only way she'd be able to ever look Bobbi in the eye again. At home, in her Hydra apartment, she could perhaps relax a little. Perhaps sleep. Somewhere where she was away from Morse and the sheer seduction she radiated like a magic spell. 

Mind made up, the rather dizzy and somewhat disappointed biochemist got out of bed and gathered her clothes from where she had folded them on the top of the barren dresser. She took Bobbi's borrowed pyjama pants and slid them to the floor, shivering, and proceeded to pull the shirt off over her head. Jemma climbed back into her skirt and turned on the light so she could this time take careful precision when sealing all her buttons. 

She made the guest bed, folded the pyjamas she had borrowed and laid them on top of the seamlessly neat comforter, and admired the work. It looked like nobody had even slept there – let alone had fitful dreams while sleeping there. Jemma wanted to leave her a note, something stating she had some kind of emergency to tend to and had to leave in a hurry, but she could find pen nor paper in the room at all. 

Worried about what Bobbi might think of her randomly skipping out in the middle of the night, Jemma made a conscious choice to explain everything to her face to face as soon as the opportunity presented itself. That she had gotten sick from drinking and felt it best to go home. The excuse would hold up good enough for what she needed it to. 

Jemma closed the guest door behind her, and stepped into the shadowy hallway. She had to be quiet so as not to wake Bobbi, and yet when she turned and glanced at the silent, closed door that stared at her, Jemma's desire began to recharge. Bobbi was behind that door, sleeping, under the covers – it wouldn't take much...

Jemma began to creep towards the door, taking care to ensure her steps were quiet, and she reached for the door knob tentatively. She could grab it in her hand and open in, and go inside – she could allow herself entry to Bobbi's dreamworld inside this quiet room. She could, and perhaps it would be a giant relief to both women – but more than likely, the sometimes self-conscious scientist discerned, this would be a horrible disaster that she would regret more than she would leaving. 

The finality of this last thought allowed her to break the spell that had drawn her to the door like a magnet to a fridge, and she turned decisively and headed down the hall, towards where she knew the kitchen would be. 

Conscientiously, Jemma took light, fairy steps even as she entered the kitchen, despite its distance from where Bobbi presumably slept. She didn't want to risk waking the other woman just because her own jittery nerves were forcing her to fly the coop. 

Heading towards the cupboard, Jemma thought she could use a glass of water before finding the phone and using it to call a cab. Then she could slip out the door and would be home before Bobbi even knew the difference. 

The cupboards were high up – as it seemed everything was in this apartment, including its chief resident – and Jemma grappled in the dark to find a glass. She didn't want to risk turning on the lights because that would be yet another possibility to rouse the spy in the bedroom from her sleep. Jemma knew from both personal experience and from living with her team that SHIELD agents did not sleep overly often, and when they did, they did so lightly. 

Finally wrapping fingers around a glass, Jemma began to bring it down from the monstrous height, using her other hand as leverage to balance herself as she gripped the sink. It didn't take long for her to be startled, however – a sudden expanse of stimulus and Simmons wanted to leap completely out of her skin, and nearly did. 

The bright, kitchen lights erupted and exploded the room into blinding yellow-white, the contrast to the pastel shaded walls just making it even more difficult to force her eyes open. Jemma could feel herself fumbling the glass as if it were coated in grease, and then suddenly, the most disruptive element of all, was a voice: 

“Are you leaving?”

Bobbi's voice.


	11. Chapter 11

The glass danced in Jemma's slick hands. She knew she wouldn't be able to hold it, but just as before when she had nearly toppled head first into Bobbi, she was powerless to stop it. 

The glass came down solidly after it had squirmed from Jemma's grip, and it struck the floor with devastatingly hard precision – flakes and shards of glass exploded at Jemma's feet, shimmering like crystal teeth all across the tiles of Bobbi's kitchen. 

Jemma stared in disbelief at Bobbi who stared back, mirroring much the same expression from the mouth of the hallway. She didn't appear overly groggy, so Jemma began to wonder if she had even gone to sleep at all. Perhaps she had heard her mulling around, fighting with her heart outside the closed door. 

“Jemma, what's going on?” Bobbi crossed her arms, her face not appearing enraged but rather simply confused. She was still wearing the same pants and Star Wars t-shirt from before. The same things she had been wearing in Jemma's dream. At even the thought of the dream, Jemma wanted to melt into the floor and vanish. 

“I'm sorry, Bobbi.” Jemma said simply, looking down at her feet. Not even wearing socks and surrounded by a glassware graveyard. One step and the shards would mercilessly shred the soles of her feet. She looked towards her SHIELD counterpart over the sea of glass hopelessly. “First your shirt, now your glass...” 

“Don't worry about that stuff,” Bobbi reassured, beginning to walk towards Simmons with that spark of concern and uncertainty still in her cold colored eyes. “I mean what's going on with you.” 

She was beginning to get too close to the wreckage and Jemma extended a hand in a stop gesture, wanting to push her back before she attempted to get through the glass somehow without damaging her feet. “Bobbi, stop – ”

But Jemma's shrill objection didn't cease Bobbi's steady advance towards the scientist. “Relax,” the brunette said clearly, seeming as though she were quite relaxed herself, “I'm wearing slippers.”

Jemma hadn't realized, and at the sudden, seemingly very audible crunch under Bobbi's feet, she understood with a flood of relief that it was indeed the truth. Hard bottomed slippers that wouldn't be too bothered by a stroll over a bed of sharp glass, and so Bobbi continued to walk until she was face to face with Simmons. 

Jemma could feel her heart speeding up again. What was she doing? Soon Bobbi's arms were about her waist and without warning, Simmons found that she was floating – her feet no longer touching the comfortable solidity of the ground. Bobbi had lifted her clean off the floor. “What are you – ”

Bobbi seated her on the counter top, above all the jagged danger that coated the floor, and suddenly Jemma understood. With a sigh of relief, she realized she didn't have to attempt to skirt her way across a glass ridden floor with bare feet after all. 

“I'll get a broom and clean this up. Just stay there.” 

Bobbi left the room still clad in her slippers, and Jemma did just as she was told. The counter seemed even higher now that she was sitting on it, her feet looking as if they were meters from the floor. She gazed down at the mess of glass, feeling embarrassed yet again, and she wondered how many more things she was going to make a mess of in Bobbi's apartment. 

Soon, the tall woman had returned her alluring presence to the room and she began to sweep up all the glass quickly and a little clumsily. Despite the cleanliness of her apartment, Simmons still got the distinct feeling sweeping wasn't something Bobbi did often – or it was at least one of the aspects of cleaning that she wholeheartedly disliked. 

Jemma watched her, wanting to help but at the same time not wanting to hop down onto the floor and skew one or both feet on a shred of glass. And so the scientist remained where she was, quiet, humbled, watching Bobbi's swift movements all along the floor. “I think that's all of it,” Bobbi said, admiring her work and the cluster of shattered bits that glistened in the dustpan. “You see anymore around?” 

“No,” Simmons replied briskly. 

Bobbi didn't respond, and instead stooped to get the dustpan. She crossed the room and carelessly dumped the glass in the garbage, propping the broom and dustpan up against it. Bobbi then turned around and started to walk towards Jemma, who could feel a certain sense of dread coiling up inside her and making her chest feet tight. “Now, you want to tell me what this is about? Were you leaving?”

“Yes,” Jemma admitted sheepishly as Bobbi stood in front of her, their faces at the exact same level with Jemma's elevated position on the counter top. She could see Bobbi's face drop at her admittance. “It's just that – well...” Jemma let her voice trail. She was obviously not feeling unwell, and so that excuse was out the window. In fact, she found that she only felt more sober since gaining a couple of hours of sleep. “A lot of things happened today, and I just...I didn't want to impose.” 

“You're not imposing,” Came Bobbi's reassuring reply, and she rested her hands gently on Jemma's thighs. The touch would have been minute, almost invisible, if it wasn't for Jemma's body and how even the lightest of contact with Bobbi registered with the weight of a boulder. “I want you to stay.”

Jemma swallowed and it caused her dry throat to ache. Her face was awfully close to Bobbi's and the other woman's hands seemed so incredibly heavy on her thighs. Bobbi's eyes were probing and light, and Jemma wanted to dodge them but it seemed she had nowhere else to look in such close proximity. “If you're...if you're sure.” 

Leaving had seemed like the best option before, but suddenly the decision seemed to be running away from Simmons with shocking speed. Suddenly it didn't seem like the best plan at all for she truly was safe and comfortable here with Bobbi – it was her own timidity. She had wanted to run from Bobbi _because_ she had craved getting so dangerously close to her. 

“I'm sure,” Bobbi replied, and her hands moved from Jemma's thighs to her waist. It was suddenly like they were caught in an embrace again. “But I'm not going to make you stay if you want to go.” 

Jemma rested her hands on Bobbi's shoulders, and she found it felt like they were growing nearer to each other with each passing moment. And it was true – before long, Jemma could feel the tickle of Bobbi's breath on her cheek. Simmons gently drew her in closer with her arms as a wreath about the other woman's neck and reveled in their closeness. 

Jemma felt her lips lightly grazing Bobbi's, so gentle a contact that it could hardly be considered a kiss. It was as if they were both nervous and tentative, testing the water to see if it was safe to proceed – Jemma could feel her desire rupturing inside her once again at the solid and sober understanding that this time it wasn't some absurd and humiliating dream. 

“I think I'll stay...” Jemma whispered, tightening her grip around Bobbi's neck and feeling every movement of Bobbi's as if they were earth shattering quakes that shook the entire room. “I don't want to go.” The taller woman's fingers dug into Jemma's waist with a tender pressure, as their lips fully made contact for the first time since Jemma's failed attempt at undercover – and of course, since her intense fantasy that manifested itself as a dream. 

The taste of Bobbi's tongue was a welcome nostalgia to Simmons, who accepted the kiss in full and felt the full and unadulterated shudder of butterflies rioting within her system. Somehow leaving had transpired into this kiss? This kiss that Jemma was finding tentative, almost delicate on the behalf of Bobbi, as if she was somehow nervous that one wrong move would put them at odds with each other. Despite the full on, all encompassing kiss that it was, Jemma found something innate in it was more loving. It was nothing at all like how “agent Morse” had kissed her. 

None of the former roughness had made its reappearance yet, and Jemma wanted truly to tell Bobbi that nothing in the world – perhaps not even a sudden alien invasion who were dead set on ruining the moment – could scare her off from something she had been craving so fully, with her entire being. 

Bobbi's hands grazed Jemma's breasts on the outside of her shirt, while nipping at the younger scientist's earlobe, just like she had in Jemma's dream. Then she spoke, husky, a whisper traveling directly into her ear, “you know, I kind of liked your approach from before,” she said, continuing with a distinctively hard squeeze of Jemma's bust, “it's really too bad I had to interrupt you.”

Jemma knew she was talking about her attempted seduction, just before Bobbi had revealed her true affiliations which had rocketed their evening and relationship into entirely new territory. Hands gripping the back of Bobbi's neck as she felt the other woman's lips planting hard kisses along the side of her neck, Jemma somehow managed to work up the nerve to converse. “I was a little disappointed too...I mean – well – I'm glad that you – ”

Bobbi chuckled, cutting off the sentence that Jemma had ceased and started a number of times in her fumbling attempt to say the right thing. “I know, Jemma. I'm glad I told you too.” Bobbi was smiling, Simmons could tell this without having to look her in the face. The sound of her voice was simply purely elated. 

As they were still sitting in the stark, blinding light of the kitchen, Simmons had made a solid effort to avoid Bobbi's eyes ever since they had begun messing around. The biochemist found this need had grown even more intense, however, when she felt the distinctly clear sensation of Bobbi's hand sliding without reservation up her skirt. Then the tall brunette spoke yet again. “But I get it. There's not much that's more exciting than seducing your boss.” 

Jemma had attempted to agree, but the sound that she supposed might have been a growing “uh-huh” emitted from her system like the loud sound of an exhalation, shaken and distracted by Bobbi's hand that was working its way deliciously across her inner thigh now. 

Jemma could feel her face burning up. It was as if she had a raging fever with no intention of being sweat out. Everything in the moment was massively overwhelming, nearly too overwhelming. The lights were on, she was sitting on a counter top, Bobbi's movements were overbearing and intense, and she kept on talking which of course prompted Jemma to respond. Things could not have been more starkly uncomfortable for the biochemist, but at the same time she wouldn't have willed the moment to cease for anything. 

Just as Simmons could feel, with anticipation spilling over the edge, Bobbi's hand progressing directly to that sweet spot, the tall brunette spoke yet again. “But you know,” she whispered as one finger on her skirt-invading hand traced a hard line along the length of Jemma's slit on the outside of her panties, “just because I told you the truth, doesn't mean we can't play.”

Jemma whimpered at the nudging contact between her legs, craving more, sheepishly wishing that her panties would vanish so as not to impede the delicious penetration that Bobbi's fingers seemed to promise. But what in the world was she suggesting? That they could “play”? Pretend to carry out Jemma's plan from before despite knowing what they knew now? Despite knowing who they both truly were?

Simmons hissed out breath as Bobbi removed her hand and exited her skirt, sliding her fingers down her thigh the entire way out. Jemma could feel that she was blushing inescapably hard, and she could feel the excitement running through her veins like an electric current. It made her muscles feel limp and jelly like, and it made her fingers tremble with each awkward touch she made to Bobbi's body. She felt the woman's twisty curves on the outside of the soft material of her shirt, and she tentatively latched onto the large breasts before her, as Bobbi dived in for another long winded kiss. The kiss was a slight relief to Jemma who still found she couldn't even think of looking her colleague in the eye without feeling every part of her insides squirm in awkward unison. 

When the kiss broke, Bobbi planted two minute kisses to the corner of the biochemist's mouth, before speaking again. “So, what do you think?” It was the same tantalizing, shiver inducing whisper as before, and Jemma contemplated her answer hotly as Bobbi began to unbutton her blouse with the same unstoppable precision as before. 

The conjecture was truly intriguing, Jemma decided. If it was just a game then nobody would truly be in danger of getting hurt, there would be no true sense of urgency and discomfort, for she knew the true Bobbi underneath. Bobbi who was kind, comforting and understanding – Bobbi who would most certainly stop with the games if at any point it became too much for Simmons to bear. 

Jemma bit down on her tongue as she felt Bobbi slide the soft material of her shirt off of her shoulders, having undone all the buttons in no time. She could feel Bobbi's whisper of kisses along her shoulder, all the while considering her move – and while she knew she had never attempted anything before even remotely close to role playing, she couldn't deny that it was something she was willing to try. She couldn't deny that something inside her had spoken volumes, screamed, in fact, with desire and thrill during her short lived but equally as endearing previous endeavor. When she had still lived with what she thought was fact – that Bobbi Morse was Hydra.

It was the memory of that thrill, still hot on her tongue like an exotic spice, that made up Simmons' mind. “Yes,” She fumbled out suddenly, the heat of each of Bobbi's individual kisses coaxing an answer from her quickly. Then she stumbled over it, went back and tried again. “Yes, well, I mean...if that's what you'd like to – ”

“I'm asking what you like,” Bobbi said, head still low, as if she were speaking directly to Jemma's collarbone. Then she planted another rough kiss just on Jemma's bra strap and the scientist shook off a shiver. 

“Well – then I think...I think that's it's something I would like to try.” Jemma could feel that her face – and much of the rest of her body – was like a furnace now, fiery and pining, from just the admittance of such a thing. It was absurd, and yet, here she was, beckoning it with the true fierceness of desire. She wondered if Bobbi had ever done anything like it before, but something told her that she need not wonder.

Bobbi seemed pleased by the response, smiling deviously as she lifted her head to look Simmons in the eyes for the first time in some while. Jemma could feel her deep brown eyes dodging away from her friend's much colder ones almost on reflex. 

Bobbi grappled with the younger woman's chin and forced their eyes to meet, and something mysterious was alive in her eyes, Jemma noted. Perhaps it was the fire of arousal. Jemma swallowed, and it felt like something hard descending into her chest, and she considered that it was perhaps her heart falling from her throat to take its seat back where it belonged. 

“It's just for fun,” Bobbi reiterated, as if sensing Jemma's nervousness the same way she had all those times at the Hydra base. “I won't make you do anything you're not comfortable with, Jemma. And I'd never hurt you.” 

The words were the epitome of sweet, and the true words of the Bobbi that Simmons had come to know since the night had progressed. Jemma still felt nervous, but not in the way, she assumed, that Bobbi thought she was. She didn't feel pressured, uncomfortable or scared. The only uncomfortable she felt was uncomfortably aroused, the idea of this role playing scenario gaining its own field of appeal the faster it shredded through her system and the more she considered it. 

“I know, Bobbi.” Jemma said, trying to rid her voice of the shake of excited nervousness, and she reached out and touched the surface of her counterpart's cheek, finding it was surprisingly hot to the touch, like a crispy stove element. 

The delicate caress seemed to prompt Bobbi to lean out with her lips, and after a short peck had been planted onto Simmons' lips, the taller woman began to head backwards towards the hall with a mischievous smirk riding her smooth lips. “Don't go anywhere. I'll be back.” Then she turned fully around and started to disappear.

Jemma felt the longing in her system riot at Bobbi's exit, despite knowing full well that she would be returning before long. But why was she even leaving? Jemma didn't have an answer to this most grating question. Why had Bobbi just left her here sitting on a counter top? 

Not only sitting on a counter top, Jemma acknowledged with some discomfort, but sitting there with her shirt flowing freely over her shoulders, every button having been unfastened. Sitting there with an undeniably familiar feeling of wetness somewhere inside her skirt. Sitting there trembling slightly, though the room was not at all cold. 

Before long, Jemma heard the steps returning down the hallway, steadily plodding towards her, and the young scientist couldn't escape the rally of butterflies the soft noise had summoned in her, like some kind of charmer of utter nervousness. 

It wasn't long until a snidely smirking Bobbi was standing in the kitchen before Jemma yet again, and suddenly the biochemist understood exactly why her colleague had so suddenly disappeared. And it had seemed like she truly had vanished, completely into thin air, because who stood before her was someone entirely different. Not altogether unfamiliar, Jemma discerned as the heat began its steady rise to her face once again, but nonetheless quite different. 

Before her was agent Bobbi Morse from Hydra. Bobbi had gone into her room and changed into red – in fact, the exact same red coat that she wore on those intimidating, confusing days Simmons had been so utterly interrogated. The same coat with the Hydra pin fastened on the front – her work clothes. 

The mere implications of such an outfit strangled Jemma's insides as she squirmed against her heavy feeling of desire, weighing her stomach down to the floor. She also sheepishly noted that Bobbi had chosen to ditch her pants altogether, standing there in panties and her Hydra coat, looking somehow still sinister despite it. Her slender legs had an entrancing, alluring glow under the lights of the kitchen.

Finding her arousal was alarming at merely the display, Jemma squirmed a little on the counter as Bobbi simply stared at her. Looking her over shamelessly. Evaluating her. Undressing her. And then her voice – the same scathing, contradicting, intimidating voice that was one hundred percent agent Morse – rung out across the kitchen. Something in her look, though, was still purely Bobbi – the ice hadn't entirely swallowed the crisp, cerulean lakes of her eyes. 

“Don't be nervous, miss Simmons.”


	12. Chapter 12

Jemma only further felt her body tense up as Bobbi began to approach her across the kitchen, walking with bare feet now over where the glass had previously coated the floor in catastrophe. 

Swallowing a dry gulp, Bobbi got closer and closer, until she was where she had previously been before exiting the kitchen just moments before. Arms wrapped around Jemma's waist, she pulled the scientist's body against her. Shirt still open, Simmons could feel the cold sting of the buttons on the jacket against her hot skin and the strong pressure of Bobbi's hands on her back. Then, a harsh whisper against her ear, “Are you ready to comply, agent Simmons?” 

Uncertain of how something that usually sat so uneasily with her could suddenly conjure up mountains of strange desire inside, Simmons clutched onto Bobbi's neck and released only a shaken breath in response to the heavily suggestive remark, and that seemed to start the whole situation rolling once again.

Jemma wrapped her legs around Bobbi's waist, the other woman wasting no time in colliding their lips together yet again in what was another passionate kiss. This was different than the first kiss they had shared together in the kitchen – she had gone back to her rough, animal like kisses. Jemma got the distinct feeling of once again being in the shoes of the prey. The hunt was back on. 

The texture of the coat was smooth and tight fitting over Bobbi's body as Jemma ran her fingers along its seams, secretly enjoying the implications of her outfit but deeply craving to wrestle her out of it. The feelings that were overcoming her were intense – arguably, she began to think, the most intense that she'd ever had – and while she wasn't sure in detail what direction the night would be going in now, she was only certain that it would fulfill the desires that had been so ruling her body like a small but iron willed army. 

Her certainty only grew as she felt Bobbi's hands upon her, gliding across her shoulders and down her back, and then before long returning to her legs. A familiar shiver worked its way through her at the feeling of the other woman's fingers on the sensitive, baby skin of her inner thighs. 

Each touch, each drumming finger as her hand worked its way back into the crevice of Jemma's pencil skirt, seemed to jolt her desire. She found herself grappling her arms around Bobbi's neck, and releasing a heavy, shaky exhale in anticipation of what she knew was coming next. Bobbi was surprisingly quiet now, but Jemma didn't mind – the blaring lights and counter top vulnerability were already setting the awkwardness bar very high without conversation having to be chucked into the mix. 

Bobbi's finger delicately pressed between her legs, taking care to slowly work the pressure against the outside of her panties. Jemma received the contact with a tremble as the spark of pleasure ignited in her system. She gripped Bobbi's neck tighter, clutching the other woman to her body as a small groan let itself loose from her lips. 

Bobbi's voice was in her ear suddenly. “You better not be tired. I haven't even gotten started with you yet.” 

The other woman then repeated the gentle rubbing sensation, that was not quite as rough as her other movements, but rather soft enough to feel more to Jemma like a gesture of teasing. Jemma felt the groan rising in her and she swallowed it down before it escaped, flushing at Bobbi's words and finding that her mind was an incomprehensible blur. If she was losing her cool already, her body's reactions too heightened, her pleasure controlling her, what kind of mess would she be in by the time the night was over? 

Feeling the hand shift a little, still situated between the biochemist's legs, Jemma didn't even attempt to conceal the gasp that escaped her as Bobbi nudged against her clit just generously enough to cruelly set her body on fire. 

Bobbi repeated the motion several more times, working her clit like a well placed button to completely undo Jemma with very little work. The scientist was quickly figuring out how much of a cruel mistress Bobbi was – or at least, “agent Morse”, was – for she didn't seem to be ready to let up at any time and allow Simmons to indulge in any real pleasure. 

Jemma wrapped her legs harder around Bobbi's slender hips, fully expecting and anticipating her playful hand now. She ground her hips towards the source of her euphoria in a futile attempt to earn harder, swifter pleasure from her teasing adversary. 

The tension in the room and inside her chest soon grew so intense that Jemma wanted to curse – if Bobbi's intention was to work her up to the breaking point, she was doing just that. Her body seemed numb except for that sweet, pulsing, unsatisfied space between her legs, and she hissed out breath and dug her fingernails into Bobbi's back as if she were hanging on for dear life. 

“Bobbi, I...” Jemma stammered out, interrupted by a soft, delicate moan that it seemed she couldn't quite control. 

“You have to wait,” The other woman's voice was cool and collected – surely, Jemma thought she had seen the extent of her colleague's seemingly stellar acting skills at the Hydra base. But this was something else – it was like Jekyll and Hyde. This was entirely different from the Bobbi that this had been initiated with, and that fact both pleased and unnerved the sheepish scientist. The callousness of Bobbi's voice served only as a reminder of who Jemma was hypothetically dealing with, and then it continued, cutting through the quiet kitchen and Jemma's heightened senses like a knife through butter. “You can't come yet.” Authority. It woke something up within Simmons that had before remained painfully dormant, its existence completely unknown. 

“Bobbi...” Jemma's voice was pleading, her body threatening her heavily now with the potential to tip over the edge – and to think, Jemma began to understand with some chagrin, Bobbi hadn't even given her the satisfaction of penetration. She was still mostly dressed and already dangerously falling into orgasm territory. Either Bobbi was that good, she surmised, or she was that swallowed by lust. 

Just when Jemma was thinking that she couldn't take any more, the minute contact building up enough pleasure in her system to threaten utter detonation, Bobbi retracted her hand entirely and removed it from where it had spent the last several minutes playfully flicking at Jemma's weak spot. 

With the hand removed, Jemma seemed to gain perception of her other limbs and senses again. Her shirt was hanging around her forearms and wrists, her tailbone growing numb from her spot on the counter. The pleasure in her system began to decrease slowly, no longer at the breaking point, as she dodged Bobbi's stern gaze. She also noted, with some degree of delayed shock, that her panties were hanging around her ankles. In the heat of the moment, how lost she had been in each one of Bobbi's movements, she hadn't even realized that the other woman had mostly removed them. Well that, she thought sourly, explains how she had come so helplessly close to the edge of orgasm.

Mouth drier than a pit of ash and face hotter than the fire that created it, Jemma shifted uncomfortably. She brought her ankles together and let the wet garment that was hanging there fall onto the kitchen tiles below. “Would it be alright if I got down from here?” She asked, her voice taught and exasperated, strained from the throws of pleasure that disappointingly did not get to take full control of her body. 

Bobbi said nothing but simply stepped aside in a manner that spoke yes, and so Jemma hopped down somewhat shakily, steadying herself on the counter when she met the cold floor with her bare toes. The room was spinning perhaps even more that it had been earlier when she was more drunk. The combination of the unfulfilled pleasure, fatigue and still lingering alcohol certainly did the trick on her balance, and she wandered absent-mindedly over to the table as if to test how capable she was of walking. 

The few steps across the room did not leave her splayed across the floor as she somehow had expected, and she rested her hand on the table to even out her balance yet again. Jemma had lost her composure somewhere – she knew it had taken almost no effort for Bobbi to nearly send her into an inescapably intense orgasm, and she knew it would take almost nothing again. The lights were still on, and she could feel her face only burning up more at the feeling of Bobbi's eyes on the back of her neck like two screws boring into her skin. 

Before long, Jemma could feel Bobbi's breath on her ear and she heard her voice practically upon it as well, slipping into her personal space with that same scathing, deliciously authoritative tone. “I wonder how good you are on your feet.” 

Jemma's mind didn't wrap itself around the comment right away, perhaps still reeling from how this evening had gotten out of control so fast, but before long she felt warm hands on her stomach, and they worked their way up to her breasts, wasting no time. 

Jemma could feel the freezing cold push of the buttons onto her back this time as Bobbi pressed into her from behind, their bodies fitting together seamlessly as Bobbi's hands found their way into her bra. The squeeze they administered was the same rough blow as before, one hand tweaking shamelessly at a nipple. The motion was almost painful to Simmons, who felt her breath hitch in her lungs.

Again, the voice in her ear, “you're so cute,” and Jemma shuddered as she felt the slender fingers grappling at her sensitive nipple yet again. It was the first time she had gotten something remotely close to praise from Bobbi – and least ever since she was no longer Bobbi again – and something about the way the words were said brought her degree of pleasure up another level. The voice was purely mocking, almost derogatory, and yet hearing them made her feel better in that moment than she had expected. It made her feel wanted. She craved this praise.

Bobbi's hands began to move downwards from her chest, and Jemma found she was slowly but forcefully being pushed face first towards the table. She extended her hands to catch and balance herself, the surface of the table pleasantly chill on the pits of heat in the palms of her hands.

Leaned over the table, Jemma could feel Bobbi's body curling around hers from behind, sliding her bra strap slowly down and laying heavy kisses on her shoulder, her hands feeling like the slow, agonizing, cold coiling of snakes as they ran from her stomach down to her thighs. 

Jemma was like a fly in a web. If someone had told her that this is how the night would end, she before perhaps would not have believed a word of it. But now it was hard to resist the realness of the situation as Morse aggressively jammed one of her legs between Simmons' own, forcing her to spread her legs as she leaned over the table. Yes, all of it seemed a little hard to comprehend. But she was tangled in this web and content to be stuck and at the mercy of the spider, even if it was all pretend.

It was apparent the second wave of teasing was on its way when Simmons felt Bobbi's hand between her legs again, stroking her delicately with that same attentive pressure, just enough to make Simmons grind her teeth together in an effort to contain her body's reactions. This time it was harder to keep herself under control, to keep her pleasure from overtaking her mind and body. This time she knew that this gesture was one of playful cruelty, and that it wouldn't lead to any resolution of release. The want to be taken would just build upon itself like a brick wall, stacking higher and higher without getting the satisfaction of being dismantled. 

Spread and more exposed from this angle, Jemma was entirely at Bobbi's mercy. The mercy of who Bobbi was pretending to be. And that mercy, Jemma already knew from her experiences at Hydra, was completely non-existent. Wrists unable to hold her, Jemma let her weight topple onto the dependence of her elbows as they struck the table, a shudder working its way through her as Bobbi used just one delicate finger to stimulate Jemma's clit. 

Jemma pushed her body against Bobbi's behind her, finding her own moans were unreserved in the face of this amazing torture that Bobbi was working her body into. Bobbi continued to kiss her neck, shoulder, and occasionally her ear, sometimes nipping with those sharp animal teeth at sensitive pockets of skin. 

Beginning to feel her knees growing weak as her wrists had, Jemma bit on her lip, beginning to feel desperate for release as Bobbi continued to idly play with her. Some of her timidness was shaken from her form, it seemed, with each shudder that wracked her body without mercy, and she found she no longer felt overly fumbling or embarrassed. She seemed to have broken through that barrier, and found herself hotly on the other side, violated and aroused beyond compare and practically beyond caring. 

Soon, she felt the hot breath of her tormentor on her ear again, and heard the domineering, reptilian voice deliver another harsh whisper. “Do you want to come, agent Simmons?” 

Jemma's insides squirmed and revolted in reaction to the voice, she felt a shiver occupy her skin almost immediately. Bobbi had almost ceased her hand's movements entirely, and while it still resided up her skirt, Simmons would have even preferred the gentle petting from before to having her entirely stop. It seemed her body needed Bobbi to continue more than it even needed air. “Please...” Her own pleading whimper sounded distant and far off to herself, like an out of body experience. 

As if to ease her pain somehow, Bobbi attended to Jemma's clit in one more solid, aching stroke, Jemma unable to silence the hard moan that followed. “I know you do,” Bobbi continued in the taunting voice of a temptress, a hint of evident humor riding on the note. “But you can't. Not until you've earned it.” 

_Earned it?_ Jemma could feel some of her timidity filtering back in like the sun coming back after being temporarily blocked out by clouds. What in the world did she mean by that? Jemma wondered as Bobbi's hand was reluctantly retracted from between her legs, but she didn't have to think about it for long. Bobbi was pulling away. 

Once Bobbi was no longer intertwined among her like their bodies were a human pretzel, Jemma was able to steady herself on the table and gain a little composure. That, of course, was difficult, knowing that the still hard looking woman was staring at her with that same unforgiving gaze, as hot and as merciless as a desert sun at the most heated point of the day. The room was spinning. The inexperienced scientist somehow wished it was still possible to blame it on the alcohol. 

Jemma turned around to face Bobbi after she had gathered her breath and her balance, and found that the woman's intense stare and her slightly amused smirk was the match to the gasoline that coated her body. Bobbi, who had walked away, now took several steps back towards Jemma, and she had to fight the urge to take one step back. Perhaps, Jemma thought sheepishly, Bobbi should have been an actor instead of a SHIELD agent. She was truly the epitome of intimidating when she wanted to be. And oh, Simmons could tell that she very much wanted to be. 

Once they were standing close together again, Bobbi towered over her younger adversary and used this height difference to spark intimidation into Simmons as always. Something about this, Jemma thought, as she tried to be bold in the brightness of the kitchen, is beyond what I ever thought I would be interested in. But somehow that made it all the more appealing.

Bobbi reached one of her long arms to the kitchen chair closest to her, and she gripped onto it and hauled it towards herself. Once it was set behind her for her to take a seat in, she placed one of her cool hands on the very top of Simmons' head. 

Jemma hadn't the time to wonder what it was that Bobbi was doing, because before long the taller (and evidently, stronger) woman was forcing the biochemist to the floor. As Jemma buckled under both the pressure and the sudden understanding that this is what Bobbi desired, she heard the other woman saying, “you like to follow orders, correct?” 

Gently toppling to her knees on the tiles that now felt mild in temperature, Jemma kept her eyes down as she bit the inside of her cheek in humiliated, aroused agony, she answered a fleeting but shaky “of course”. Something in her words, Jemma noted, was a strand of inherent resilience. She truly had burned away much of her shyness like an unwanted skin tag, at least for now, and was willing to comply to Bobbi's wishes because something about the game they were shamelessly indulging in was so seductive. It was so arousing, and so incredible and increasingly _right._

“Good,” The authority in Bobbi's voice was like candy to Simmons, as if she would have accepted no alternative answer, and Jemma found she couldn't get enough of it. While the entire experience had been trimming her awkward nature with each passing moment, her slithering words, demanding attention and well behaved compliance, was something that elicited nervous butterflies within the biochemist's core every time she heard it.

Bobbi was taking a seat in the chair she had pulled out, and while she still towered over Jemma who was grounded somewhat uncomfortably on the floor, her face was at least visible and with it, that hard, tempered stare. “Then tell me, Miss Simmons – how useful can you make yourself?” 

Jemma stared at her, feeling the color returning to warm her face as Bobbi spread her legs provocatively before Simmons. Bobbi had put herself on display with no discomfort whatsoever, and her expression only seemed increasingly more amused by Jemma's bashfulness that had suddenly returned without hesitation. Something in her eyes was playful again, and it beckoned Jemma to come forward. Make a move, such seductive cat's eyes said. 

“So, show me what you can do.” Bobbi said, the sentence in itself almost casual if not for her demanding tone of voice. Then she added with finality, as if she had wanted to finish her sentence before but had thought better of it, her eyes gleaming with a delicious degree of power: “That's an order.”


	13. Chapter 13

Initially, Simmons knew naught what to do but to sit there on her knees and stare at her expectant superior. Bobbi was gazing down at her, her eyes offering this challenge like a privilege. She was every inch a goddess, Jemma surmised, if not an impeccably cruel one. 

Swallowing her pride as she remembered having to do so quickly before in Bobbi's room, Simmons tried to work similar magic on herself as she inched towards Bobbi, sliding in her direction across the kitchen tiles. She didn't attempt to climb to her feet because she hadn't been told she was allowed. Jemma felt she was beginning to get the hang of this – and a lot of it seemed to depend on how much of your own pride could fit into your stomach. 

“You really are cute,” Bobbi mused aloud in that same belittling tone, the one that spoke volumes about her view of Simmons. The short lived, mockery style praise had the same effect on Simmons as it did the first time. The tall brunette then reached out and touched Jemma's face, and then her hair, before retracting her hand and continuing to wait for the next move to be launched. 

Jemma felt like nothing more than a pet to this woman – however false that this woman was. She felt like nothing more than a tool to be used. And the girl found that the want to be used was growing at an alarming rate.

When Jemma got close enough to feel the waves of heat rolling from Bobbi's body, she felt her hesitation fighting for control of her body again. She refused to heed it, however, and went on with the task she had set herself to do. She bared her teeth against her own bewildering timidity and hooked her fingers into the waistband of Bobbi's black panties. 

Bobbi allowed them to be removed without any objection or words at all, and soon they joined Simmons' own, looking contrasted and out of place on the white tile below them. Brushing up Bobbi's coat at the front, Simmons was surprised to find only more bare skin, indicative of the fact that she wore no shirt beneath it. Insides squirming, Jemma determined that the other woman's belly button was almost cute, something which differed entirely to the woman who waited perhaps not so patiently above her. 

Jemma brought her lips to graze the other woman's soft, flat stomach, and before long her wide, shapely hips. She could hear the beginnings of a satisfied sigh somewhere above her, and the motion gave some growing room to Jemma's pathetically shrimpy confidence. 

Trailing these kisses to her inner thigh, Jemma continued to work her way across smooth skin, setting up the scene, beginning her move with the slightest whisper of pleasure and anticipation that she hoped Bobbi would feel in its entirety. She could feel the seated brunette's hand around the back of her neck, gripping, and Jemma only hoped that it was a good reaction. 

Feeling it was time, not wanting the hesitation of her foreplay to anger her hardened mistress, Jemma moved in completely and touched an uncertain tongue to the other woman's pussy. The biochemist felt immediately the shiver that even such a small degree of contact erupted in Bobbi, the grip of her hand at the back of her neck only tightening. 

Jemma found that the surface was already quite wet, and she began to work her tongue into the sweet, heated spot with less hesitation and more a more methodical rhythm. It excited her deeply, a hard pang to her stomach, when she heard the first of Bobbi's oddly timid mewls echo along the walls of the brightly lit kitchen. 

Inexperienced as she was, especially when it came to the bodies of women, Jemma found that her confidence only rose with each tortured moan that ruptured its way out of Bobbi. The biochemist took her time, however, devouring Bobbi slowly, savoring the other woman's time in sexual limbo. 

The woman before Jemma seemed entirely consumed by pleasure, and even engrossed in her task as she was, Jemma could note the grappling hand on the back of her neck had progressed to rooting deeply into Jemma's cropped hair, gripping it with an iron hold that sent shocks of pain to ignite upon Simmons' scalp. Bobbi used this taught grip as a lever and she pushed Simmons down upon her harder, grinding herself against the tongue that fucked her. 

Simmons found she didn't much mind the pain that was coming to clear fruition on her head, and noted that in a sense it seemed to only heighten the experience she was having. In time, Bobbi's moans progressed to be harder and and more frequent, her hips bucking towards Jemma's flicking tongue. 

A fast learner all her life, after she determined herself that it was time, Jemma found almost no trouble in locating the tall woman's clit. She singled it out with the tip of her tongue and the contact coaxed out a sharp groan from Bobbi that was almost pained in its want for release. 

Jemma found this realization utterly desirable. Twice Bobbi had brought her up to the brink, only to calmly deny her the orgasm she so needed. Calmly and all the while continuing to torture her with her words and subtle movements, just below the threshold of what Jemma knew she needed to get off. And while Simmons wouldn't dare deny or even delay Bobbi's orgasm – she had recognized long before this moment who had the power to call such shots – it brought to the younger woman a strong, serene sense of satisfaction to know that she had her superior desperately on edge.

However, Jemma's own unsatisfied desire remained, soaring through her system, seeking desperately for an exit. Having to earn her right to an orgasm was something Jemma had never encountered before, but yet she couldn't deny the reaction that it had awoken in her. Being deprived of what her body needed to come down from this sexual high was almost cruel, and yet, it was certainly paying off for Bobbi who was getting all the tremors and satisfaction of release – or who would be very soon. 

Jemma was unsatisfied, her pleasure only steadily rising with each time she ground her tongue into Bobbi's clit with an increasing amount of pressure, teasing it with the tip, tasting her and driving the other woman wild. Bobbi's uncut reactions made Jemma's stomach do flip flops. She only hoped that once she had brought Bobbi to the liberating climax that she now so craved, that it would be enough to have “earned” a shot at obtaining her own. 

The tentative biochemist began to feel, by the distinctive, hard tremble that wracked the hand embedded in her hair, that Bobbi was going to come soon. She had been working her, undoing her with her tongue for several minutes now, and Jemma grabbed onto Bobbi's hips with her hands and dug her fingers hard into the smooth skin of her sides, preparing for the spiking of Bobbi's absolute pleasure. 

It didn't take long after that – just one more achingly sensual touch to Bobbi's most sensitive spot, and the orgasm went on a warpath through Bobbi's system. Her legs and toes curled up and wrapped around Simmons' still stooped body, and her previously tortured moans reached the peak of euphoria, hitting the ceiling as she came without reservation. 

The deed done, and done well, she surmised through the evidence of Bobbi's heart stopping moans and still gently convulsing form, Jemma rested her head on the bare thigh of her adversary and waited for her hair to be released from the woman's pleasure-tightened grip that was still hanging to her head and hair as if for dear life. 

As Bobbi caught her breath, Jemma did the same, still remaining with her head draped over the other woman's leg, the younger woman could only feel that her own desire had increased to a whole other degree. A degree beyond grasping or harnessing, except, she thought with a tender and unexpected burst of awkwardness, by Bobbi. By agent Morse. This desire was like a knot caught deep in the recesses of Jemma's core, and though she wasn't certain which it would be, it was going to take either a lot, or just a little to untangle it and free her from its imprisonment. 

They lay there for a time, and before long Bobbi's hand released the tension and pressure that had before seemed permanently looped into the curls of Simmons' brown hair. Then she began to stroke it, the motion was almost too delicate to be real. She stroked Jemma's disheveled locks of hair as if trying to set them back in place from where her iron grasp had disrupted their natural balance. Then she spoke, her words still a little disoriented and breathy but nonetheless dominating, “good girl.” 

Jemma felt her face flare up into fever level heat, the well placed and insensitive sneer of praise hitting her system with satisfaction and only generally spiking her psychological desire to be taken by this woman. In fact, she wasn't entirely certain how much longer she would be able to wait. 

Another minute or two of solid silence between the two women and Bobbi had swallowed up her breathing so that the kitchen was intensely quiet yet again. The clock could be heard, forever whispering the time across the quiet expanse of the kitchen, and Jemma thought that it must be nearly sun up by now. 

Bobbi had stopped gently brushing Simmons' hair, and then the hard woman spoke, her authoritative voice shattering the silence. The tone that Jemma had somehow nearly forgotten in the chorus of hushed and girlish moans that Bobbi had been emitting in the minutes previous. “Get up.” 

Two words, and they spiked Jemma's body into moving the same way that a sharp, physical pinch would have. Despite her dizziness that prevailed, Jemma climbed to her feet immediately and without question. Bobbi remained seated. 

The menacing brunette's hands extended out and touched Jemma hips, and the younger girl felt the very remote, gentle touch like a hard blow to the gut. Something within her was out of control. Whatever it was that Bobbi's beauty and her games had awoken in Simmons was rampaging, refusing to be quieted. 

A slight tug on her small hips, and Jemma heard more words trailing their way from Bobbi's delectable lips. “Come here,” She beckoned, like a taunt, her voice worming her way into and feeding Jemma's desire like a true temptress. “I'll give you what you want.” 

Jemma was sheepish somehow that her desire was so known by Bobbi, her need to be completely at her mercy common knowledge to the sinister woman of a performance she was playing. But somehow, it made letting go of her pride easier – letting go of her reservations and her fumbling awkwardness that sometimes seemed to catch up to her despite all that she had engaged in. 

But then again, the girl wondered as she gave into Bobbi's pulling hands and accepted the invitation to climb into her lap, how could Bobbi not know of her deep desire? The latter part of the evening, Bobbi had spent much of her time working Simmons nearly to the point of no return. Of course she knew of the younger woman's painful arousal – it had been her goal and, once met, something to revel in like an achievement. 

Legs wrapped around Bobbi's waist, she felt the other woman's chin nestled on the crook of her shoulder and neck, and the grip of one of her firm hands on her lower back. The other hand, however, wasted no time, as if with its own bank of personal knowledge it knew exactly what it was that Simmons desired. 

Jemma held on to Bobbi's neck and shoulders tight, before long feeling the long awaited and purely satisfying return of Bobbi's hand. Bobbi nudged almost gently at her opening with two fingers, and Jemma released a shaky sigh, able to feel her own wetness, her own wanting, all staked on Bobbi and her willingness – or lack there of – to please. 

Having been pining for so long, Jemma thought that perhaps nothing before had felt so amazing as Bobbi's previously strict, teasing fingers finally sinking their way inside of her entirely. The sudden motion that had been so long anticipated drew out a sharp little noise from Simmons, almost like a yelp, and she dug her fingernails into Bobbi's neck as her superior effortlessly worked a third finger inside of her. 

Suppressing her initial need to moan by biting down on her lip, Jemma found that keeping it under control steadily grew more impossible as Bobbi began to stroke the hand that was inside her, touching harshly off Simmons' desires, off that aching node of fantasy deep within. The same one that had coaxed her into dreaming earlier. The same one that had throbbed whenever she was around Victoria Hand. Finally it felt the acknowledgment that it had always pined for.

All the tentative, slow building that Bobbi had engaged Simmons in since the night began was certainly paying off now – and the biochemist could see why she had done it. Every movement, every effort on the part of Bobbi was heightened. A pin drop was an explosion. A simple touch carried the weight of a thousand well placed punches.

Bobbi used her hand that wasn't occupied between Simmons' generously spread legs to hold the younger woman's back, pushing down on it and forcing Jemma to ride her other hand even deeper. Jemma found that it was entirely up to her to keep her balance, Bobbi fervently engrossed in trying to deliver Jemma to some kind of release. Or else, Jemma thought, she just likes to hear me suffer.

Grappling onto the back of the kitchen chair now instead of Bobbi at all, Jemma dug her fingers and fingernails into the polished wood until it hurt. She thought for a fleeting few moments that she might scream. Bobbi was pounding her skilled fingers inside of her quicker with every passing moment, and it felt better as it got rougher with each amazing thrust.

The pleasure that was mounting began to feel to Simmons like the wavering of her consciousness. If Bobbi were to stop her now, to deprive her for one reason or another yet again, the the overwhelmed scientist thought she wouldn't, couldn't survive the ordeal. Jemma didn't try to silence or subdue her voice anymore. Old fears took flight from her system as pleasure worked its way into every corner of her body and mind, overtaking everything. 

“Bobbi...” Jemma cried out, rolling her hips with the rhythm of the other woman's strokes, the pressure of her other hand on her lower back intense, the approaching orgasm in her sights and nearly too much to swallow down. 

“What is it?” Bobbi's voice was tantalizingly teasing, a bittersweet melody traveling directly into Simmons' ear. It seemed she wanted to hear her say it.

“I...I'm going to – ”

Even in the overwhelming numbness that was overtaking her body like a hostile force, Jemma still got the distinct feeling that Bobbi was smirking that same all knowing, cruel twist of the lips that Jemma both hated and loved nearly simultaneously, and with the same unbearable force. 

“Then come. You're allowed.” 

That's all it took, along with one last well executed jerk of Bobbi's slowing hand, a deliberate shift to nudge mercilessly against her clit, to send Jemma spilling over the edge. Sparks ignited in her system, the orgasm rolling through her in waves that left no part of her body, inside or out, untouched by its almost violent fury. Jemma thought her nails would drive into the wood of the chair and crack off as she clutched at the hard surface to steady her body. 

Bobbi made no noise or movement beneath Simmons as she came, perhaps simply reveling in the moment now that it had finally arrived. Jemma, too, found she was drowning in it. The intense want for Bobbi that she had felt before, laying cold in the guest bed, finally felt fulfilled and satisfied. 

Even as the orgasm finished with her, leaving her limbs trembling, mind reeling and muscles aching in its wake, Jemma found that the pleasure was still there but in a way that felt completely hollowed out. Bobbi's method of denial and delaying had certainly worked in the way the other woman's confidence had seemed to promise. The absolute satisfaction that Simmons had managed to gain from finally getting to indulge in what Bobbi had worked her body up to feverishly needing had without a doubt been the most amazing sexual experience of her life. 

The dream she had had earlier, that before seemed so innately filthy and attractive to Simmons paled in comparison to the real thing she had experienced, as she remained seated on Bobbi, clutching the shoulders and neck before her and fighting for breath. The dream that had seemed before so dirty and uncouth looked sparkling clean with the hindsight of the games Bobbi had so carelessly introduced her to.

After a few minutes had passed, Jemma finally found she had gathered her composure and what was left of her energy. She felt incredibly weak, as if she had just taken a long uphill hike. It seemed every inch of her skin ached, and somehow she wasn't even sure if she'd be capable of standing. She could feel Bobbi's hand on her back, gently rubbing its soft heat across the surface of her spine. 

The motion relaxed her and only absolutely heightened the physical and mental realization of her exhaustion. She had barely even managed to register everything that had gone on since she had attempted to sneak out, and now the fatigue from the long and stressful day before it was weighing down her body like a dress made of concrete. She had only gotten roughly two hours of sleep. 

“You're amazing,” Bobbi was saying, and her words and tone were definitively Bobbi again. No trace of the hardened Hydra agent who had just spent the last long expanse of time ruling over Simmons' body remained. It was the girl behind the mask again, and now that climax had been reached and the illusion of the game had dissolved, Jemma was more than happy and ready for it to to be SHIELD agent Bobbi Morse again. 

Jemma was taken aback by the comment, and immediately launched her own objection. “Me?” Jemma said, flabbergasted, letting go of the hug like position she had been in for some time to finally look Bobbi in the eye for the first time perhaps since they had begun. “It's you who is truly amazing, Bobbi.” 

Bobbi grinned at this, laughing sheepishly, unable to hide her amusement at Jemma's adamant assertion, it seemed. Jemma found she was smiling herself, and she didn't feel a need to shrink or shy away from the eye contact as she somehow expected she would. The sexual tension of the evening had been resolved – and of course, she mused secretly, after having to face down “agent Morse” twice on the same evening, Bobbi was clearly a breeze to be around. 

“You feeling okay?” Bobbi questioned, seemingly out of the blue, and Jemma watched the woman below her reach out and touch one of her flushed cheeks with the back of a cool hand. 

“I'm alright,” Jemma responded, her voice still sounding somewhat distant to herself, her ears ringing. Yes, the fatigue was definitely laying waste to what remained of her body now, the surging orgasm having wrecked through enough of her to make tiredness an easy feat. “I think I'm just tired. It must be awfully late. Or, if you prefer, early.” 

Bobbi laughed. It was a genuine, hearty laugh, and Jemma loved the sound of it as it bounced off the kitchen walls. It was nice to be around Bobbi again – for while that dark haired woman in red had given Simmons' the experience of a lifetime, it was certainly true that it was the real Bobbi that the biochemist found herself growing further attracted and attached to. 

“I'd say you are tired,” Bobbi said then, in a teasing tone, running her hands up Jemma's arms to her shoulders. 

A little flustered in the moment, Jemma released a shaky, nervous little sound that she supposed was meant to be a laugh. Her smile, however, could fool no one – and certainly not Bobbi. It was a bashful, tired, spent smile, Simmons knew, but it was a happy one nonetheless. “We should get to bed, perhaps?” 

Bobbi nodded her head in agreement, slowly beginning the rise to her feet which prompted Jemma to climb off of her lap and stand on her own on the cold tiles of the floor. The room bucked and swayed gently, as if being taunted by a very quiet breeze, and Jemma felt she would honestly fall into the grasp of slumber the very moment her head hit the pillow. 

Bobbi stood and stretched, extending her long arms far above her head and releasing a little squeak that Simmons regarded as unbearably cute. Then, still smiling, she felt Bobbi's slender fingers latch onto her own as she was lead towards the mouth of the hallway. Bobbi flicked off the kitchen lights on her way out. 

As they headed towards Bobbi's room, the latter seeming perfectly comfortable to walk around her own apartment half nude, Jemma tightened her fingers around her friend's. Things certainly hadn't gone as planned, but she knew that nothing could make her regret this. 

Then again, as if reading her thoughts as always, Bobbi began to think aloud. “You know, Jemma,” she began, a hint of humor hiding its head behind the words, “when I first figured out what you were doing – that you were trying to seduce me – I tried to get you drunk.” 

Jemma laughed a little at first, as they reached the door frame to Bobbi's room. Then she added, sarcasm playfully dripping from each syllable, “you wanted to get me drunk? I never would have guessed. Not ever.” 

Bobbi chuckled at this. “No, no, really – I didn't want to have to tell you about who I was and I didn't want to have to take advantage of you either. So I had this crazy idea like, hey, let's get this girl so drunk that she'll pass out and forget what she was trying to do.” 

Now it was Jemma's turn to stifle a chuckle. “Well, that didn't exactly go as planned, did it?” 

“No,” Bobbi said, as they entered the room and she let go of the other girl's hand, turning to look at her. “But, I think the night turned out a lot better. So I'm kind of glad it didn't work.”

Jemma felt color filtering to her face, but she smiled and didn't break the eye contact despite it. “Yes, well. You're certainly irresistible.”

Bobbi smiled and eyed her idly, beginning to undo the buttons on her jacket. She glanced down at them, breaking the staring contest of sorts that they had found themselves engaged in. “Well, I'm glad you didn't resist.” She said matter of factly, and then, glancing up with that same provocative element to her gaze that Jemma had certainly seen before, added, “much.”

Jemma laughed at this, eyeing the other woman tentatively as she let the Hydra coat drop carelessly to the floor. Bobbi was fully nude now, and she strutted over to the bed without a care in the world about it, turning down the covers and sliding under the sheets. She moved over to the side of the bed closest to the wall, as if leaving a space for the other SHIELD agent.

Jemma, despite this gesture, still hovered in the doorway like an uncertain butterfly, Bobbi's bare shoulders and an ounce of cleavage peaking out of the covers. Jemma's legs were tired and her aches were becoming too much to bear, but yet she stood there, at least until Bobbi's voice resounded. 

“Kill the lights, close the door and get over here,” Bobbi said to the scientist from across the room, as if recognizing that the girl had needed a prompt or invitation. Despite the demanding sound of the sentence, it was nothing like the way that she had been demanding from her earlier. “Oh, and ditch those clothes, too,” The leisurely reclined brunette added almost as an afterthought, and Jemma was thankful for the blanket of the blackness as she flipped down the switch. 

For the second time that evening, Jemma found herself sliding out of the days clothes in a pitch blackness that faded to a pale grey with the sneaky morning light. Things were much different this time. This time, she wasn't pining, desperate, or aching for Bobbi's affection. She had already devoured it, and so she didn't waste the time meticulously folding her clothes. They were somehow ruined. Forever stained by what had transpired, Jemma knew with a clarity and certainty that she would never be able to wear any of it again without thinking of this first encounter with Bobbi. 

_First encounter._ The way the thought had flitted across her mind, a free spirit, made it sound as if she were anticipating other encounters with this woman. The air was cold in the room as Jemma let her last article fall to the floor. She crossed the room and climbed into the bed effortlessly, the soft covers and plush mattress feeling like a cloud beneath her and surrounding her. Comfort, at long last. 

The heat of Bobbi's skin beside her and the feel of her arm as it casually draped around Jemma's waist only increased the degree of her safety and the warm, solid comfort that enveloped her. Simmons again mulled over the possibility of other encounters with Bobbi, as she nestled into the other woman's arms. 

Surely, the night couldn't have gone better. And so Jemma knew. She knew with a wry grin on her face, not much thought necessary. As sleep began to infiltrate, the sweet scent of Bobbi's hair seeming to get her high, Jemma knew that if she were ever given another opportunity to repeat this – all of it – that hesitation would not even be an option.


	14. Chapter 14

Jemma woke again some hours later, not entirely sure what time it was. Her head still spun when she poked it out of the marshmallow pillow beneath her, and she found that Bobbi was still beside her, sleeping with a quietness that was almost strangely delicate. 

Jemma couldn't find a clock anywhere in Bobbi's bedroom, but thought she could tell from the intense sun that now brought more than just pale light to the room walls, that it must be nearly noon. The first thought that crossed her mind was work. 

Hydra. The op. Despite everything that had gone on – the memories of the night flitted to her mind like a series of photos from a very lewd shoot – she still had to show up for work. Panic tried to come into her system like a toxic poison, tried to emphasize that this one night of debauchery could bring the whole operation to collapse around her feet. But despite how it tried, Jemma found that her fears were powerless, the effortless rioting useless as she stared down at Bobbi's serene sleeping form. 

Bobbi's dark hair was disheveled and splayed across the pillow like a shadowy splatter of paint across a stark white canvas. Her eyelashes rested against pale cheeks, looking like delicate butterfly wings. A perfectly painted porcelain doll. The blankets and sheets were hanging off her body as if she had perhaps become restless in the night, and her smooth breasts were visible, glowing in the early afternoon light. 

Jemma watched her for but a moment longer, a little nervous that the woman would suddenly awaken and find the scientist watching over her. Such a thing, Simmons discerned, would be unsettling, and so she resisted wholly the urge to reach out and caress one of Bobbi's defined cheeks. Instead, Jemma climbed out of bed carefully so as not to jolt the mattress, and when she was solidly on her feet, she reached out and draped the messed blankets over Bobbi, up to her chin. 

Taking in one final, satisfactory glance, Jemma exited the room and closed the door quietly behind her. She felt tired and sore, but it was the kind of fatigue that was almost enjoyable in what it indicated. It was the kind of tired that made her feel genuinely satisfied, the same tired that a day at the gym or a long, harrowing mission brought the next morning. 

But for once, Jemma mused, as she went into the washroom and ran the shower, this good fatigue wasn't related to SHIELD at all. Finally, since the first time in she didn't know when, Jemma had allowed herself to indulge in something purely for pleasure. Something that she had wanted for no other reason than wanting it, and it felt good to allow herself to engage in something strictly for her. 

The water was hot when she stepped behind the pulled curtain, and it was amazingly revitalizing on her aching muscles. The steam of the shower washed away the grime and sweat of the previous evening, ridding her of any traces of make up that might have still clung to her face. 

For several minutes Jemma just stood underneath the spout of water, wrapping herself in its relaxing heat, the refreshing feeling of finally getting herself cleaned up after such an exquisitely seductive evening was unmatched by anything in that moment. Then she heard the sound of the curtain being pulled back ever so slightly, and startled, the biochemist whirled around and found a groggy looking Bobbi Morse stepping into the tub behind her. 

“Do you mind?” Bobbi asked, and Jemma felt her heart speeding up as she shook her head steadily. When the taller brunette closed the curtain behind her, Jemma found the space had grown much more tight and intimate, but nothing in Bobbi's body language displayed that she meant a repeat of last night with this move. Instead, she let the water soak her head and body the way Jemma had, beginning the conversation with her eyes closed, water gushing over her shoulders. 

“How did you sleep?” 

Jemma thought about it briefly, and found she didn't even remember waking up once since the two of them had collapsed, utterly spent, into one another's arms. “Wonderful,” came her truthful response after a moment. “And yourself?” 

“Great,” Bobbi replied without hesitation, reaching out and pulling Jemma close to her so that the hot water cascaded over the both of them. “How can sleeping after sex like that not be great?” 

Jemma laughed a little nervously, feeling one of Bobbi's hands on her spine, as she watched the other one reach up and lift a stringy, wet piece of hair out of her face. Glancing down at their feet momentarily, Jemma could see that the water, crystal clear coming out of the nozzle, darkened to a color that was deep brown, almost black, by the time it reached their feet and the drain. 

Lifting her head, about to ask, Jemma found that Bobbi was grinning. Then she extended forth an explanation without even needing to be prompted. “I'm a natural blonde,” She said, the words coming out almost guiltily, like a confession. “I just dye my hair while I'm undercover.” 

Jemma found the conjecture that Bobbi was normally both fair haired and fair skinned rather appealing. Something about her had been off since the SHIELD reveal, and now Simmons knew what it was. She wasn't actually a brunette. Blonde hair, Simmons thought, imagining it as she looked the other woman over, was much more distinctly Bobbi. 

Jemma also liked the idea, because it further divided Bobbi and Agent Morse as seemingly separate entities within the same body. Bobbi, who was blonde and light and easy going, and agent Morse, who was dark haired, sinister and dominating. It was easier to see the Hydra cover as her evil twin with the knowledge that she normally looked quite different, and something about it only increased the woman's incredible appeal. 

The women took their time in the shower together, washing each other's hair and bodies in a lighthearted manner, reveling in the cleanliness and refreshment of the the water that grazed their tired forms. Before long, they had dressed themselves, Bobbi allowing Jemma to borrow more clothes at least temporarily. 

They sagged almost pathetically from the difference in height and build, so that Jemma couldn't help but suppress a smirk when she examined herself in the mirror. Luckily, she thought, she wouldn't have to show up to the Hydra lab dressed so ridiculously.

Standing in the kitchen, after having cleaned up what remained of their clothes from where they had been shed the night before, Jemma waited for Bobbi to get dressed. She steeped the tea in two different mugs, one for each of them, something that she wasn't quite used to doing since leaving her team. She also kept a watchful eye on the two slices of whole grain toast in the toaster, constantly having to roll up the sagging sleeves of the borrowed shirt. 

Before long Bobbi strutted into the kitchen, and a jolt of adrenaline peaked in Simmons' system as she saw the other woman in that coat again. The Hydra pin shined maliciously in the hard kitchen lighting. This coat was the same one she had used as a fortunate costume for their role playing the night before. Jemma didn't look at her too long – the embarrassment of what she had engaged in seemed to have caught up with the pleasure now that it was the morning after. Instead, she busied herself getting the breakfast ready as Bobbi took a seat at the table. 

“You know, I didn't really think through wearing this last night,” Bobbi joked, and Jemma could hear without looking at her that she was drumming her fingers on the surface of the table. “Luckily,” she continued in the same light manner, “you didn't mess it up too much on me.” 

Jemma laughed nervously, not regretting what they had done with any ounce of her being, but still not perhaps at the level from which she could talk about it without brightening up like a tomato. Without saying anything, Jemma brought the tea over to the table and set one down in front of Bobbi with a small smile. 

Bobbi watched her mull around the kitchen and Jemma could feel the eyes on her, and while she was still the Bobbi that Jemma knew to be a very compassionate person, just the appearance of her in that coat brought back some of the euphoric feelings from the night before. Perhaps, Jemma thought as she buttered their toast with a lump in her throat, Bobbi isn't the only one who didn't think things through. 

Jemma had to manage to work at Hydra until the op was finished. This meant encountering Bobbi, who would all the while embody that persona. That persona that still sparked fear and intimidation, but not in the same way it had before she spent the night at the woman's house. 

No, the fear and intimidation she felt now went into her body as such and translated into something else once inside. It transformed into erotica; into hard pangs of guilty longing deep in her stomach, towards her groin. Into fleeting sexual arousal and nervousness about the detection of that arousal. Of control and domination in the private sphere as she had already experienced and reveled in shamelessly. 

How was she going to be able to work in the same facility as her, and see her perhaps several times a day just walking down the hallway? How would she be able to put a lid on those feelings of utter arousal? 

The question was one Jemma surmised would not be easily answered, as she engaged in small talk with Bobbi over their tea and toast. She supposed she would find a way to contain what had happened last night somewhere within her, for the op rested upon this. 

“Don't worry about being late,” Bobbi was saying after Jemma mentioned her reluctance to show up, taking a long gulp of her tea. “I'll take care of it.” 

Jemma was uncertain. The fear of the state of the operation, Coulson's trust for her – for them both – to keep things going steady, what Bakshi or other Hydra officials might say or suspect or do to her for being late. It all ran through her head like a tornado, making a mess of the girl's carefully laid, delicate nerves. “Are you sure?” 

“I'm sure. Jemma, one of the main points of this op for me is to protect you,” Bobbi pushed aside her tea mug and probed into Simmons' eyes with her own sympathetic gaze, “I'll come up with something. The op is fine. Trust me, they like me.” 

Jemma laughed a little. She supposed she would just have to trust Bobbi for now. It would be different, as before in Hydra she had nobody to trust but herself and her own judgment. But now she had made a friend, a real friend who would watch over her shoulder when she was incapable of doing so herself. Blind trust was always hard, but with Bobbi, Jemma figured, it was easier, if only slightly. “Alright. Then I suppose I trust you.” 

“Good,” Bobbi beamed, seeming truly pleased by such a statement. She had finished her toast and so she watched Jemma finish eating with the quiet precision she always did, and Jemma could feel herself getting hot under the gaze of the woman across the table. Something which, she acknowledged sheepishly, had happened more times than she could count since she had left her apartment yesterday. 

“You sure you're okay?” 

Bobbi's tone was concerned, and her sweet words and kind gestures and worry did not match with what she was wearing. It was like mixed messages inside Simmons' head. The biochemist smiled as she finished the last of her toast. “I'm fine, Bobbi. Really. Just...being in that place always makes me the slightest bit uncomfortable.” 

Bobbi smiled a little. “I don't blame you. They're pretty crazy. But we'll be out before you know it.” 

Jemma tried to take Bobbi's words to heart and to some extent she did, but her nervousness remained, like a delicate but nonetheless horrid high pitch frequency in the background of her thoughts. Nervousness about the other Hydra heads who she knew were much more dangerous than Bobbi, and also the same indecent nervousness about Bobbi that was linked to their encounter. The coming days at Hydra were going to be quite the emotional blur. 

“So, I'll drop you off to your apartment, and head down to the base,” Bobbi continued, picking up their dishes and bringing them all to stack in the sink. “then you can get changed and head down the way you always do, and by the time you get there I should have everything sorted out.” 

Jemma thought that Bobbi too, must be nervous to be going back in. But nothing in her words or mannerisms spoke the slightest of ill feelings. She was the utmost of confidence as usual, but perhaps that was only for the benefit of Simmons herself. Jemma was certainly sure that if Bobbi was at all nervous, she would never let it show. 

Standing up from her chair and brushing herself off, Jemma smiled weakly at Bobbi and gestured towards the door. “Shall we go, then?” 

Jemma learned before long that trusting Bobbi had been the proper thing to do. She had gone home, her own apartment filling her with comfort just from the mere neutral scent of the place as it filled her nose. She got dressed in her own attire, worked up her confidence and headed down to the facility on foot as usual. 

Nothing happened. Not in her most wild fantasies did Jemma imagine she would get in unscathed, without interrogation or question or worse, from anyone. Bobbi really had done an amazing job of convincing them of – well, whatever it was she was convincing them. Jemma hadn't asked her to go into detail and she didn't think that she wanted to. 

She worked her usual day and didn't see Bobbi once. It was both disheartening and a little relieving. Part of Jemma wanted to see her, because she wanted to be sure she was alright, that things had gone well. They were friends. But she didn't want to see her because she wasn't yet ready to face what Bobbi's Hydra act would more than likely awaken in her yet again. She wasn't ready for her insides to squirm at the sound of that voice, and wasn't ready to crave the full attention of that authority. 

The ensuing days at Hydra became a blur, as Simmons had somehow expected. Her emotions in a tizzy, constantly strangled by the mixture of hope and disdain at the potential for encountering Bobbi. Now she certainly understood why Coulson hadn't wanted her to know about Bobbi's SHIELD affiliation. It really was awfully distracting. Each day was the same: The same dull lab and lab conditions, and of course, her thick glossary of worries. But what Jemma hadn't anticipated was that the game would be ongoing. 

Jemma did not expect for Bobbi to extend that game they had played for one evening in the woman's kitchen to extend into the sphere of work. Risking the stability of the op but in the most subtle and delicious way possible. Using every opportunity and outlet that she could to exert dominance over the overwhelmed biochemist. 

Bobbi was relentless. It seemed she had certainly discovered a way to make the Hydra op a little less boring – for that was definitely the feeling that Simmons was getting. Bobbi evidently had had just as much fun on their night together as Jemma had, even though they hadn't discussed specifics in that way since it had happened. But it was clear by her risky behavior that she was willing and ready to engage in more, the potential of getting caught only making the situation more desirable. 

The previous question that Jemma had posed to herself – about whether or not there would be more encounters between them – began to develop a mind of its own. Each day that passed at the Hydra base that Jemma saw Bobbi, she didn't hesitate in messing with Simmons if the opportunity presented itself. 

Whenever they were in the same room together, Bobbi didn't falter in making it known to Simmons and Simmons alone the secret they held. No matter who was talking, or what the issue at hand was, Jemma could feel herself growing increasingly and irreparably bothered under Bobbi's gaze. The gaze that took sport in climbing over every inch of the biochemist's body to the point where it felt like fingers. 

Once, Bobbi had taken the liberty of cornering Jemma in the washroom, just as she had long before any of this became play-danger rather than real danger. This time, instead of the real, sharp pangs of fear deep within her core, fear of being caught as SHIELD and brutalized, Jemma had felt quite different. 

She felt the true excitement of the secret they kept held tight between them, as Bobbi subjected her to a derailing and derogatory mock interrogation, all the while engaging in light petting. The fear of someone walking in put Jemma at Bobbi's mercy against the Hydra bathroom wall, and while her head reeled and raced with every word and motion made by the icy brunette, Jemma couldn't deny the euphoria and the sweet adrenaline that such close calls summoned up in her system.

At another instance, Bobbi took the largest risk imaginable, choosing to exert her influence over Jemma while the two of them resided in a room heavily populated with people. Surely, those people were scientists – and scientists were much too occupied peering at slides, jotting down notes, and staring at computer screens to be overly concerned with the people next to them. 

Truthfully, Simmons herself had just leaned over to look into her microscope at a sample when she felt it. A hand, provocative and uncaring, gripped firmly onto one of her ass cheeks, squeezing it unforgivably hard as fingernails dug into her skin. 

Jemma knew immediately who it was and resisted the urge to jump and yelp from the jolt such a motion had given her. And while before long the hand had removed itself, Jemma's body filled up like a volcano that exploded at the top of her head, and she tried to draw little attention to herself. As little attention as possible, she hoped, even as Bobbi Morse began to quietly rail her with questions that pretended to be about her samples, while Jemma stammered and blushed harder than she thought possible in her feeble efforts to answer politely and correctly. 

After three or four days of this shameless behavior, Jemma had become certain about one thing and one thing alone – Bobbi wasn't done with her yet. The thought came as a relief, which was the immediate and most important feeling her conclusion elicited. 

Jemma realized with a clarity, sitting in her apartment alone on a Saturday night, that she hadn't been ready for Bobbi to give her up after she had left the other woman's apartment. She had convinced herself otherwise because part of her had been certain that things had only happened how they did because of the many twists and turns the night had taken, a true roller coaster. Things had happened that way, but it was a weird night in itself – and she had taken to heart that she would not be offended that Bobbi perhaps would not initiate anything similar with her again. 

The scientist had been painfully wrong. While she hadn't met Bobbi outside work since, their interactions at work which grew increasingly heavy and risky had definitely changed her mind about where Bobbi stood on the basis of their interactions. 

Getting bored of playing solitaire in the lonely silence of her apartment, Jemma thought fleetingly of Bobbi and all that had transpired since the Hydra op had begun in the first place. It was certainly the most unpredictable of journeys, and it was only getting more complicated. Where would she be and what would she be thinking about at this moment if her interactions with Bobbi had never occurred? It was hard to even imagine.

Jemma wondered how things would change when the op came to an end and they returned to SHIELD together. They would still be working together, but things would be different. The game would have to end then, they were safe among friends – friends who would be a lot more suspicious of their interactions than many nameless and faceless Hydra agents.

Something that tasted almost like disappointment grazed Jemma's tongue as she cleaned up the cards. Things would change indefinitely – and while she had convinced herself of such things many times before, something about the reality of that change whispered true finality. 

Jemma sat there for a longer while, mulling over her still short lived time at Hydra, when the thought struck her. Her immediate reaction to this thought was utter rejection, but it crept back in before long and began to turn the gears of her incredible mind with increasing speed and precision. 

She debated it long and hard for a time, weighing the possibilities, the pros and cons, and of course, measuring how much she truly wanted it. When the possibilities seemed relative, the pros outweighed the cons and her desire was measured to be an intense level, Jemma thought that it could really do her no harm to try. 

So Jemma found herself back to square one then, or so it felt, as she applied the red lipstick in the mirror with a hand that this time shook with anticipation rather than deep rooted fear. She dressed herself well again, this time choosing a dress to coat her body over her finest undergarments. Just a splash of perfume and a sprinkle of make up and she was out the door, a cab already on the way to pick her up. 

It felt like that first night again she mused, as she climbed into the back of the cab when it arrived. Here she was, off to seduce her boss – except this time she knew better. This time, it was her subtle and determined contribution to the game that Bobbi had obviously taken pains to extend and continue as much as possible. 

The thought that had so provoked her in the kitchen was one that instilled in Jemma an understanding that the game didn't need to end with the op. That personal life was still a thing untouched by work, despite her close knit, family like connection with her SHIELD team. Jemma could surely continue to play with Bobbi behind the scenes – or at least, if that was too what the other woman desired. 

This same train of thought had also pushed her away from her pining worry about the future SHIELD days with Bobbi to come, and had her focus solely on the present. The op was still ongoing. The illusion of agent Morse from Hydra was still clear and defined, like a dark pencil sketch. The present was the time to be captured and harnessed – the two of them could worry about and perhaps discuss what would happen later on at any given point. 

For now, more fun was what Simmons desired, more fun and more Bobbi. This woman that Jemma could hardly get enough of. Even with the amazing sex cast to the sidelines, Jemma simply wanted any possible excuse to get beside the woman again. To get to know her, to talk to her, and to spend time with her. She was in deep, and the hole was beginning to get too deep to climb out of.

Before long the taxi pulled in front of the same bar and Jemma paid him and got out. She had considered just going straight to Bobbi's place, since she still knew the address, but something about it seemed inauthentic. This is where it had begun the first time. Jemma appreciated and thought Bobbi also would appreciate the legitimacy of meeting here as if by chance, and what it would add to their game. 

There were a couple of guys smoking outside the entrance, and as the cab driver skidded away, Jemma took in a deep breath, readied herself, and entered the bar. 

Much to her dismay as she scanned the crowds, Jemma saw no signs of Bobbi or of her friend Mack among the tables of rowdy, drinking patrons. No matter, she thought, she could show up at any point. Or she could not. There was no way of knowing and there was nothing to lose by showing up just in case. 

So, without further hesitation, Jemma made her way into the belly of the dim, noisy pub, and sat in the same seat that she did nearly a week before. She ordered a Gin Rickey, and she waited, keeping her eyes fully on the ice in her glass as the minutes ticked by. 

Occasionally, Jemma scanned the filled tables of noisy regulars, the pool tables overrun with competitors and found no trace of Bobbi still. Perhaps, she began to think as she nursed her gin, she was a fool to show up here and simply expect to find Bobbi. She could be doing anything right now, with anyone, and there was no guarantee that she would even think of coming to such a place. 

But still, Simmons had the overwhelming feeling that she would. She would, and things would start all over again, like a cycle of unusual temptation and punishment. She was counting on it. 

The time ticked away and Jemma finished her drink before long. Having been competent enough this time to bring a watch, Jemma noted that she had been there over an hour. It would be nearly eleven pm soon, and perhaps it was getting on time to call it a night. 

Once more, she thought fleetingly. I'll have a look around the bar just once more, it can't hurt, and then I'll phone my cab. Mind made up, Jemma whirled around on her bar stool to let her eyes once again surf the variety of faces surrounding her, but instead she was astounded to find only one. Or only one, at least, that she cared to see. 

It was Bobbi's face, a noncommittal look of expectancy twisting her smooth, beautiful features. Jemma felt her heartbeat speed up and threaten to gag her. Neither woman said anything for a time, their eyes meeting and conjoining in a gesture of understanding. 

Understanding why they had both shown up. Understanding that they had wanted to see one another. Understanding that this place was the only place that they could meet in a manner that would replicate the previous anxious feelings of anticipation. But most of all, it was a sheer and solid understanding that the game was still ongoing. 

Bobbi's eyes gleamed with delicious knowledge, and Jemma idly watched her, her nervousness increasing heavily and speedily. It was a train wreck of nervousness, and Jemma rung her hands at her lap, uncertain of what to say. What if she had been wrong about Bobbi's desires, her brain suddenly began to peddle. She wanted to speak but couldn't find the right words. But then again, she realized before long, she didn't have to say anything at all – Bobbi simply got her. If there was any trait that the true Bobbi held most skillfully, it was the ability to simply get Jemma Simmons, on every level, from sexually all the way up to emotionally.

Simmons had to say nothing at all, because before long, Bobbi was speaking – and her words, which sent a distinctively harsh shiver to work its way up Jemma's spine, revealed that she understood why the biochemist had shown up. They were on the same plane of thoughts, these words implied. They were on the same page, and things weren't about to change anytime soon, at least if Bobbi could help it. 

“Fancy seeing you here again, miss Simmons.”


End file.
